Jackson Free Press

The show was a wild mix. Act I: Afro-Hindu Caribbean Tribal Dance. Act II: Disco Grooves and Soul Train moves. Act III: Classic European ballet based on a Russian folktale. Watching the Dance Theatre of Harlem at Thalia Mara Hall on Thursday, Jan. 30, taught me, in vivid color, that to be American and to be human means that I am mixed. My family prides itself in not being "mixed." In the early '70s the members of the White Citizens Council hurriedly established a statewide private-school system. In fact, my 1976 diploma from a Council School contains the following words on the seal of the certificate: "States Rights and Racial Integrity."

I guess I needed purification because I had spent four years in classrooms with "Negro" students and "Negro" teachers. My parents decided to avoid further damage to my racial integrity by taking me out of public schools.

Life, fortunately, has brought thousands of experiences that shatter the myth of my racial superiority. The Dance Theater of Harlem was the latest attack on my deep-seated superiority complex. The truth of our common humanity was boldly broadcast to a packed auditorium; the messengers had no sermons or speeches. The dancers used their bodies alone to proclaim human equality—a goal of the theater company since Arthur Mitchell started it in 1969 with young dancers, many of them from Harlem. Inspired by Martin Luther King, Jr., Mitchell has toured his dancers around the globe ever since, spreading the message through music and dance.

The pounding drumbeat and the slapping bare feet of the opening dance—called "Dougla"—brought Africa to my mind. The dance, meant as an iconoclastic assault on the myth of ethnic purity, presents the intricate ritual of the wedding of Trinidad. A "dougla," by the way, is what the offspring of an African and Hindu person is called. In Mississippi (in mixed crowds) we called mixed people "mulatto." In private we called them more derogatory names. The irony of it all is that just as we are all "dougla," we are all "mulatto." The dance performance was for me a celebration of color: my color, our color.

Soon the dance shifted from tribal to urban beats. The dancers invited us to watch them at the disco, the juke-joint, the club—all places that my preachers have labeled "forbidden." I looked around at my fellow Baptists in the audience and saw them beaming at the sight of the sexy acrobatics on the stage. As we sang along to the familiar songs of James Brown and Aretha Franklin, we were all united. Mulatto. Dougla. One.
— Todd Allen