The Candy Imposter

Not knowing The Candy when the party's over... pain.

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Relief swells within me as my best friend grabs me and guides me through the dance.

How do I not know how to move to this music?

We laugh together as I follow his steps, still managing to stumble over his feet occasionally. Few steps back, forward, then back, now slap the ground? Not everybody did it. I think I’m safe. Now we’re going sideways again.

What my best friend doesn’t know, what he can never know, is that he’s just saved me from a sobering, night-ruining exposure. This party that I’ve just moved through, for a brief couple of hours, has felt like home.

Black music, Black people, Black dancing. I catch the eye of a fellow brother while talking to an attractive woman and I get the nod. A passer-by wouldn’t have noticed. I barely even noticed. But that brief tilt of the head, the confirmation that yes – you are speaking to a woman I also find attractive and yes – I see you. That’s the stuff. That from a different guy - perhaps one wearing beat up New Balances and a Levi Tee, maybe even rocking a mullet, controversial as it may be, just won’t do it for me. Honestly, it would probably piss me off. But you, my friend, with the gold tooth and the eyebrow slits – I know we’re talking the same language. I see you too.

It’s easy to avoid misunderstanding when you’re partying with your people.

Well, they were my people. But now, Candy is on. The party is ending. The bluff is almost complete. I just need to be guided through these final (literal) steps, and I will be away and in the clear.

There are rules when partying in a room rich with melanin. A good two step is essential, good vibes vital, and you MUST know the Candy.

But me – with my brown skin, white dad, and stumbling feet – think the jig could be up.