African Dance Led to Self-Understanding

Mina Wilson on growing up in El Cerrito

Mina Wilson (courtesy Mina Wilson)

Dance found me in kindergarten. It was 1966. The Civil Rights Movement was boiling like a thick, richly seasoned stew pot during a frigidly cold winter. Images of southern tyranny branded minds.

The complacency of fair-weather legislators, covetously holding transformative power, frustrated committed and hopeful souls of every race as they pressed for justice individually and collectively. A new consciousness was sprouting.

My parents, Lucy and Charles Wilson, intersected with one of those consciously sprouting souls. Rabbi Axelrod, a religious leader devoted to the movement, owned a home in El Cerrito. As he planned to move from the segregated community, he was committed to the radical act of selling his property to an African American family.

Their conversations led to a transfer of property and a new home for our family.

Although a worthy goal, integration, for those of us living it, was socially, emotionally and relationally traumatic. There is no way to legislate relationships.

Critical, skeptical and belittling looks as you navigate the grocery store or local streets are not stopped by the law. Nor was the ignorance spoken by a gingham plaid apron-clad, middle-aged white woman who approached my fair-skinned mother to ask her where she found the “cute little pickaninnies.”

My mother gasped, squashed her desire to curse, and told her, “These are not pickaninnies, these are my children!!”

“Can I go?” I asked each morning as I watched my siblings go to school. I craved the “going to school” experience, longingly watching as my siblings left for the grand place.

My imagination was filled with wandering and imagery. My mind pictured imagined experiences and my heart warmed as I thought of fun with my future classmates who would become friends. I longed for the day when the “school place” would be part of my reality.

When my first school day finally arrived, I led the march, like a little soldier leading all the new kindergarteners up the hill as we walked together. I was so happy that day.

Within the week, the energy shifted. The children at school hadn’t had up close and personal relationships with anyone who looked like me. Until that day, I’d never perceived that I was different than any other person in the world.

Initially, their curiosity was endearing. Over the course of the week, endearing curiosity turned to insulting inquiries, insulting inquiries turned to criticism and criticism to bullying. This was my introduction to white bias and aggressions.

This sentiment would continue to pollute the air in institutional environments throughout my life, like an invisible smoke seeking to choke, stifle, limit and create boundaries to Black people’s quests to have safe spaces to be our authentic selves in the world.

A girl named Cecily catalyzed the relational energy shift. She began making ugly faces at me in class. On the playground, the nastiness continued. Surrounded by a horseshoe of less bold souls, she ranted about my big lips, the knottiness of my hair. Her taunts targeted everything about my appearance that was different from her own, which was everything.

Day by day, her horseshoe grew in numbers and boldness. For weeks, I tolerated her; my parent’s Christian values echoed in my head. “Turn the other cheek” and “be the bigger and better person.”

One day, their words fell on the hard ground of five-year old emotions. The rants began to suffocate me, like having to walk through dense southern humidity. It was hard to breathe. One insult too many, I saw red, my reaction guttural.

When my mind re-emerged, I sat straddling her flailing body with one small fist clenching her collar and the other gripping her hair, my appendages rhythmically smashing her face into the gritty dust of the sandbox.

A firm grip jerked my collar, choking the air from my fury. “Let me go,” I screamed as my arms swung with anger. I was whisked to the principal’s office. My mother was instructed to come immediately and collect me. I was suspended from school for three days.

Momma was livid. Her southern African Methodist Episcopal upbringing spewed out with indignation.

“How could you go to the school and act like such a heathen? Exactly what they expect of us? You KKKKNNNOOOOWWWW better!”

She would leave my discipline to my father. Lying in my room, tears ran down my face, the traumas playing over and over in my head, waiting. Ashamed. What was wrong with me? I fell asleep.

A knock awoke me. Beams of daylight had become evening shadows. “Mina?” my father’s voice called. “Come to my office please?” “OK,” I whispered.

Mina Wilson, age 19, with her mother, Lucy Wilson (photo courtesy Mina Wilson).

His echoing footsteps faded on the hallway floor as he walked that way. My head began pounding. Fear froze me. My mind ordered, “Get up and walk”. No response: I was paralyzed. A few deep breaths moved energy back into my body. My feet began to move.

As I walked in, he had papers fanned out on the desk, working. “Have a seat,” he instructed. I sat on the wooden church pew-like bench parallel to his desk. I felt like a mourner. The silence was thick and deafening as I stared at the back of his head. My eyes found a patch where hair was thinner than everywhere else. I wanted to touch it. Fear commanded my hands to be still.

I closed my eyes to quiet my mind. I felt a gentle breeze and opened my eyes to meet his deep, probing gaze. Its intensity made my eyes tear. He grasped his hands together and slowly settled them in his lap. “What happened?” His eyes locked mine.

My voice trembled as I spoke. My words quivered as I shared my story. He listened patiently, present in his listening, holding me in his gaze. It was a soul connection. I saw sorrow in his eyes and felt the compassion grow and embrace me. I wiped my tears and nose on my sleeve and arm.

He looked up to the ceiling as if seeking guidance. “I am not going to punish you.” The heaviness of my heart began to lift.

“What you experienced was not right,” he said. “When people treat you wrongly, you have every right to defend yourself.” He continued, “Those girls need discipline,” then he paused, “I will discuss this with your principal.

“Always know that you have no obligation to play with people who don’t treat you well. You have toys of your own. You can always play by yourself.” He looked deeply into my eyes.

“What you must know is that YOU,” he pointed his finger in my face, “cannot go through life fighting with THESE” he held his fists in my face. “YOU,” he pointed to me again, “must learn how to fight with THIS,” he pointed his finger to his temple, indicating the mind. “If you learn how to fight with this, well, you will eventually win.”

Those words were my first lesson on how to survive as an outsider in a racist society. It was the first of many. We never spoke about it again.

Mina’s parents, Charles and Lucy Wilson (photo courtesy of Mina Wilson).

When I returned to school, Mrs. Evelyn Murry, a Black woman from the community who was a minister’s wife and mother, had been hired as a classroom aide and yard duty teacher at the school. I had no more problems at school or on the playground.

Escaping punishment from my father soothed my soul but didn’t quiet the dark thoughts of my mind. My psyche was haunted by the demeaning words and abusive behavior, especially in the three days I had spent at home during my suspension from school.

First, I considered and somehow came to believe that somewhere, somehow, I must be defective. It had to be true, especially if so many people hated me. Fantasizing, I began to wonder what my life would be like if I was a little white girl. I cried that night. My mind was not a friend; so much pain and confusion.

The days were long during my suspension. I played record albums. A song came on, “The Dolly with the Long Blonde Hair.” The word mingled with my pain and confusion. My soul clung to the song.

Fantasizing about being a little white girl, I danced around the room and my imagination soared. I saw my image in a mirror on the wall, my brown skin, big lips, and knotty hair. Hmm, what could I do about that?

I pulled a yellow towel from the linen closet. I rummaged through my mom’s knitting basket, found yellow yarn to tie the towel to my head. I performed, swinging the yellow towel from shoulder to shoulder as if it were my hair. I twirled, picturing pale skin, blue eyes and long, flowing blonde hair.

Suddenly, the music stopped. I opened my eyes to see my mom, staring at me with pain in her eyes and the record player arm in her hand.

She sat down and looked into my eyes. “Do you really feel that way?” I nodded. Our pain met through our eyes.

I don’t know if it was a week later or a month later, but Momma buckled my brother, Charles, and me into the back seat of our blue, wood-paneled station wagon. Our ritual was peering out of the windows to spy license plates to find and count the numbers from 000 to 999. Great competition.

Mina Wilson and her brother Charles (photo courtesy of Mina Wilson).

We pulled up at the South Berkeley Community Center, a beautiful building with grassy lawns and adolescent trees. As we entered, Momma hugged a tall, strong, beautiful woman with eyes electrically bright and an ivory white smile, her face smooth and brown like chocolate. She wore vibrant yellow, orange and red clothes and her hair was wrapped.

“This is Ms. Deborah Vaughan. She is the founder of Dimensions Dance Theatre. She is going to teach you African heritage through dance.”

Ms. Deborah smelled like rain, talked about ancestors, traditions and the motherland. The rhythmic music touched my brother and me in deep places, creating the landscape that we moved our bodies on, as if prompted by genetic memory.

We learned of African ceremonies, their meanings and traditions, while finding ourselves in the rhythmic drums of Olatunji. Inspired by our passion and prowess, she choreographed a dance piece for us, and we were good!

The dance had a synchronized intro, broke into solo segments, and culminated with a vibrant drum outro. That spring, Mama made a bold move. She entered us in the school talent show and made our costumes with her own hands.

On show night, I felt confident. Charles and I both were excited. We peeked out from backstage to see Momma and Daddy seated front and center.

As our drumming began, there was pregnant silence; this was not the normal Beethoven recital piece or tap dance solo. We entered from opposite sides of the stage in African regalia. I had to refrain from laughing at the shocked expressions. This fueled our passion and stoked our power.

We let our bodies get loose, becoming one with the drums. Charles stepped back as I moved in my solo. The cheers from the audience surprised me. I swayed back as he came forward and worked on his dance.

We moved back to center stage for our dynamic outro. As we did, I glanced in the audience and saw Cecily’s jaw drop in shock. A rousing ovation filled our hearts with joy and pride. I thought I might explode.

After the last act, the participants moved to the stage for the announcement of winners. We fidgeted as third place was called. Anxiety grew as the second-place winner was called. Sorrow grew in my belly. I knew we would never be awarded first prize.

My heart dropped. I was frozen as they called us. We looked at each other in disbelief and gripped each other in a tight embrace.

Something happened inside of me. Scabs fell from emotional wounds revealing scarred, but healed places. My soul was redeemed, the cement of my self-worth set. A foundation of self-knowing and pride rooted within me. I was reborn.

I caught Momma’s eye from the stage. She was brimming with pride and, like that first painful day on the steps of my “Dolly with the Long Blonde Hair” home stage, our eyes locked.

My mind flashed back to the days of my suspension, the yellow towel tied to my head and my passionate “wishing-to-be-white” dance.

My heart overflowed with love, gratitude and appreciation. I ran to Momma from the stage, grabbed her waist and squeezed. I didn’t have words to thank her. Her courage had taught me how to hold my truth while turning adversity into a friend.

These experiences continue to live in my heart and soul and have defined my ethics for life. Dance became a way to integrate mind, body and spirit with my heritage, to connect with the passion and beauty of my culture and ancestry. Dance became a pathway to access deep places where my essence resides.

As the years progress, and I have grown in deeper understanding of myself, I’ve become comfortable being an outsider. I found power in the periphery, and value in the perspective that its vantage point allows on the world.

Mina Wilson’s family moved to El Cerrito in 1963. The youngest of five children, she grew up in the city. Wilson is the Executive Director for Healthy Black Families, Inc. a community-based public health nonprofit organization based in Berkeley and is a member of the El Cerrito Human Rights Commission.

This article appeared in the July 2023 issue of the Forge.