5.4. Autoethnography Part 7

5.4. Autoethnography Part 7.

The Art of Belonging. Pretoria, 2009.

“You do not belong here. Why don’t you go home?” the gold-toothed boy asked the boy. The question was rhetorical. A dialogue of rhetoric that gave the assailants the confidence to promote whatever violence that would follow. “Do not talk to me like we are friends.” The boy replied, pushing his way through the group of five surrounding him. He was on his way from the tuckshop, a sandwich in his hands, his bag left where his group of friends were sitting.” We’ll find you after school.” The boy ignored them, walking around the brick tuckshop building and walking across the grass field that most of the school kids sat at during break. His friends sat by a concrete table, one of the four available seating areas here, able to keep it due to the group of friends’ numbers and reputation. He arrived and sat, joining them in watching the senior students do flips and dance on the grass. The senior group they were watching were known as the hip hop group and often were found doing such performances during break times. “Are we going to State later?” A light-skinned African boy with cornrows asked the group in general. “Yeah, it is Friday.” a dark-skinned boy of central African descent replied. They sat chatting about the happenings that would be a part of their Friday afternoon. School ended as it always did, a group of five boys walking their way from their high school to the city centre, towards the State Theatre as was their plan. Many students walked in the same direction since the “Hip Hop Heads” had joined the march. They arrived 30 minutes later at the square in front of the building; a crowd gathered four different school uniformed high school kids. They were brought here by the same culture, belonging to those who followed American hip hop. It was 2008 now, the rise of commercial Hip Hop lesser to the underground artists, the digital age belonging to those who could afford the devices needed to access it. In the middle of the circle, the senior boys they had been watching had made a half circle in their red and black uniforms, the other side held by a halfcircle of navy blue. The energy was palpable, the groups of boys finding any position that would give them a view of the centre of the fast-growing circle. A red and black-uniformed boy who had repurposed his school briefcase into a speaker, a result of him applying his electrical technology education, placed it onto the floor in the centre of the circle. He connected an mp3 player and took a few minutes looking for a beat. He nodded, and one boy from each group stepped forward, eyeing each other down. There were adults around who were barely paying attention in most cases, walking their way to their transport home, or attending to the stalls they were vending from. This was the practice of a rebellious youth to their eyes, not a moment of connection that bound boys from different ethnicities, cultural backgrounds in a celebration of a single art. The beat began, and in a few seconds, a group of close to a hundred kids nodded their heads their beats to a lyric-less rhythm, a few raising their hands and moving them to the beat. The conductor with the briefcase nodded to the boy with the navy-blue jacket, and the boy began his freestyle. The boy who had walked here with his friends closed his eyes, his head bopping focusing his attention to hear through the city noise. I belong here, no matter what you think. He lost himself to the art.