i begin with a memory

then slip into slowness

my body is the site of radical transformation

—

i’m standing in the middle of a field in the berkshire’s. 

the land i’m on, and the house behind me have belonged to the same

black family for four generations;

the Hart’s.

the house serves as an archive of their family lineage. 

the land serves as an energetic reminder of all who have passed through, 

of all who survived.

behind the house is the field. 

behind the field are woods. 

in the woods there is a creek that i walk to every morning. 

i sit on a log and meditate, listen to music, sing out loud, listen to voice memos & record new ones to be sent out.

just beyond the creek is a larger body of water. 

i know this because i hear it,

not because i see it. 

it stays tucked out of sight. 

rushing

remembering. 

back in the field, there is a bridge that crosses over a brook. it leads to 

a flock of trees. 

i find myself in a lot of stillness here. 

listening. 

remembering. 

one morning i stood flush with the trees in meditation. 

the sky stood proud with deep gray and white clouds 

and the winds carried a steady breeze that could move you, 

if you let it. 

my weight shifts between my feet as

i notice the trees getting carried away.

they sway back and forth in community with each other;

calling and responding. 

it is playful

it is familial. 

it is familiar. 

a distant creaking sound comes to the forefront. 

i look to the back door to see if someone else has come outside, but no one is there.

the creaking continues and is echoing louder. 

i walk deeper into the 

flock of trees

and at once, i understand.

this is the sound of the trees moving in the wind. 

this is the sound of the trees moving in the wind. 

it is siren, it is creak, it is crack, it is call.
i stand in their chorus

swayingswinginggrooving

callingandresponding 

grateful to be a witness to all that can take place in 

the breeze between the leaves.

—

i start a 5 minute timer 

and walk to lay down on the floor close to the window. i am on my right side. 

i close my eyes and 

imagine myself back in that field in the berkshire’s. 

the field

the trees

the breeze

are inside me now.

this is a memory i recall in slow motion.

my left elbow slides back, dragging my left hand along the top of my leg

as my hand reaches my hip, my left shoulder backs up into the floor and 

my right scapula spreads itself out onto the surface;

finding rest once my left shoulder joins it on the ground.

i keep reaching my left hand outward along the floor,

my left foot shifts back and as i continue to spill my weight towards the direction of my hand.

my pelvis and left foot lay flat on the floor.

it feels like i’m here forever,

and i would be here longer

except my left arm keeps reaching

and now my knees are both falling over to the left side.

my right arm takes the long way around - my fingertips brushing a circle over my head.

eventually, my right arm arrives on the ground in front of my chest,

i press into my right palm

and as i rise up, my left forearm rotates 

and my left palm now presses into the ground.

i’m rising,

my right ear leads the way.

my arms almost get to straighten 

when i feel the warmth

from the sun on my face 

i smile, eyes still closed.

i slide my hands across the floor towar—

the timer goes off.

i’m brought back into the room.

i’ve never liked moving at a fast pace.

as a child i was clumsy and fell a lot. 

i would get flustered at trying to keep up with everyone else’s speed to the point where i would literally

trip and fall and hurt myself. 

the world is such where we prioritize our work and not ourselves.

prioritizing myself and my slowness is my work. 

slowness feels 

indulgent, luxurious, decadent, vulnerable, tender. 

when we move fast it is harder to keep track of these parts of ourselves. 

which is on purpose. 

moving slow forces us to look, to contend, to get familial/r with exactly 

where our bodies are at. 

to be present on an epic scale. 

this defies

everything we’ve ever been taught about how to navigate this world.

slowness as a practice is 

inherently black. 

inherently queer

inherently feminist. 

nothing will get done before we get to it. 

—

when ferguson happened, i created a class called 

contemporaryTRAP 

to keep me company. 

being at a PWI, i either felt 

invisibilized or tokenized 

by my white peers/mentors/faculty. 

contemporaryTRAP was a space that provided 

proof of my black life

proof of my black joy

& proof of black celebration. 

it was my call & response. 

today,

my class still holds similar values. 

but as the world turns,

so do the ways in which i approach my research and thus, my teaching. 

when i think about all it took to get through the pandemic 

(we still gettin through)

there was so much stagnation. 

i didn’t want to move inside of systems that lacked the 

care and consideration for my body. 

and as i prepared to return to the classroom

i found myself wondering how i was gonna teach movement again

inside of a large institution that lacks

care and consideration for my body. 

what was the “so what’ of all of this?

why am i choosing to teach in a classroom right now,

and why are these students signing up to be in my classroom right now?

my students say:

“i wanna move fast” 

“i just wanna dance” 

“i don’t wanna talk”

“i don’t want to check in”

“i don’t wanna improv”

“i don’t have anything in me today”

“i just want to turn my brain off and move”

“i just wanna do moves”

“I JUST WANNA DANCE JESS”

lately,

what they struggle with is slowing down,

to notice exactly what they’re doing and how it feels to do it.

i want them to integrate the things we learn in class into their everyday lives.

what do you learn by moving together in this room

& how can you carry it forward into your life once 

you back outside?

adrienne maree brown says: 

“there’s a conversation only the people in this room can have, find it”

i emphasize two things in my classes: the community, and the self.

we must be able to find our self and our own voice

and we must work at 

and wonder about how to be in relationship to each other.

how to be in community with one another;

this desire is most critical to me.  

this comes from my background in house dance/music,

but it’s also been forever known.

because community is how i got here.

Nia Love says “you don’t take class, you make class”.

when the next pandemic happens, i want us to be able to look at our neighbor and say 

“neighbor, 

we gon help each other make it through”

by witnessing each other, being vulnerable with one another and surrendering to slowness amidst all of the things. 

we have the power to transform the shit that flings itself at us everyday.

through practicing awareness

and care

and consideration

and intention

and slowness. 

it takes a village. 

which we hear a lot in regards to raising a child;

but

we cant thrive as our own ecosystem.

some days i’m the root

some days i’m the trunk

some days i’m the branches

some days i’m the leaves

this body is a site of radical transformation. 

this body can imagine itself as the breeze between the leaves. 

and if we can imagine it, then it’s real.