20 minute read
Breaking Free
At 18, Logan “Logistx” Edra is already a world-class dancer, a social activist and an Instagram sensation, but she’s also part of a growing movement of elite performers who are speaking out about the importance of mental health. On a journey to find her authentic self, Logistx is ready for her reveal.
L
et’s begin with the night that many of us came to know her name.
It was the 2018 Silverback Open in Philadelphia, one of breaking’s most prestigious international competitions. Logistx was only 15. She was still mostly unknown on the world stage. Sure, she had been winning battles around her hometown of San Diego since the age of 10. She had talent. Maybe you’d even call her a phenom. But the world’s best B-Girls were there. Standing just fivefoot-one and with baby hairs framing her childlike face, Logistx did not look like the B-Girl to beat them.
But she had done her research. For each opponent, she had a plan. She beat Sarah Bee to advance to the top 8, then Kate to reach the semifinals, and then, in the semifinals, she beat Ami of Japan. Ami had just won the first Red Bull BC One World Final for women, essentially, breaking’s world championship. This was like Logistx just beat the queen.
But she didn’t have time to bask in her big win. She was now up against Jilou, a slender German known for her acrobatic style. In this final battle, she planned to throw her one-handed back handspring, because Jilou did a lot of flips. But she also knew that planning would only go so far—winning would require improvisation.
Three rounds. Jilou set the tone. She danced right up to Logistx, threw a big grin and two emphatic peace signs, then exploded into a clean, dynamic set. Logistx answered, building into her first round with a swaggy segment of top rock—how a breaker typically begins their set, by dancing standing up—her feet moving so quickly they appeared to float. Then she dropped into an air flare, flipping into a handstand and spinning her legs in the air with the velocity of helicopter blades.
The B-Girls battled. The beat thumped. The crowd roared. Logistx threw her onehanded back handspring. Jilou threw a backflip into a layout. Logistx answered with a head drill, flares, reverse flares. The crowd chanted: USA! USA! The MC lifted a small brown hand into the air. Winner: Logistx.
This moment in October 2018 changed everything for her as a breakdancer. In the upcoming year, she would sign with Red Bull as a sponsored athlete. She would be the youngest competitor invited to the 2019 BC One World Finals, at 16. She would appear on The Ellen DeGeneres Show.
Which only makes it harder to believe that just a week earlier she had attempted to take her own life. It was as if there were two different people: the B-Girl who soared to incredible highs, the young woman who experienced devastating lows. Actually, for Logan “Logistx” Edra, this was not so far from the truth.
At 16, Logistx was the youngest invited competitor at the 2019 Red Bull BC One World Finals. She’ll return to the World Finals in Poland this November.
Logan Edra has many superpowers, but the one I notice first is her ability to make you like her immediately. Maybe it’s her sweet voice and guileless affect. Maybe it’s our shared Asian-American heritage—I’m the daughter of Taiwanese immigrants, and Logan is Filipina-American. Or maybe it’s how, when I meet her for the first time, in the lobby of the Marriott hotel in downtown Orlando, she bypasses my extended hand and gives me a hug. Either way, though Logan is 18 now, technically an adult, she evokes all my deep-seated big-sister instincts.
It’s the weekend of Red Bull’s BC One National Finals. Logan isn’t competing, as she’s already qualified to go to the BC One World Finals in Poland in November. Right now, she’s just concerned about getting lunch.
We walk down to a smoothie shop about a half-mile away, accompanied by her boyfriend, Yonell “Nelzwon” Damata, a thin, quiet 19-year-old with soft eyes and a mop of black curls, and their friend Pep-C, a smiley young B-Girl from Indiana. Both are among the top-ranked in the nation. Logan and I walk ahead, and as we cut through empty lots she reveals herself to be kind, cerebral and mature beyond her years. She asks me questions about myself: what is my ethnicity, where do I live, do I do any sports or dance? When I ask her deeper questions, she acknowledges them with a thoughtful “mmm!” before responding.
We talk about social media, how it’s a double-edged sword. Last year, right before the pandemic hit, Logan moved from Southern California, where she grew up, to Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Instagram helped her find the dance community in her new home, and it’s also her business tool—she has over 160,000 followers. But she’s well aware of the app’s toxic effects, particularly on girls and young women. In 2019, she collaborated with choreographer D-Trix to make a dance video depicting the way social media fuels isolation, depression and anxiety. She was invited on Ellen to perform the routine. “But I feel like I’ve gotten to a good place with social media,” she tells me, as we cross an intersection. She has a rule for herself: It’s OK to post things or respond to comments and DMs. But when she starts mindlessly scrolling, that’s her cue to pick up a book.
As we wait for our smoothies, Logan tells me that she sees herself as an artist, not just a breaker. The video she created with D-Trix is among several art-meetsdance clips she’s made, and she also does choreographed hip-hop and some acting, too. (You can see her in the 2020 Netflix film Full Out 2.) One day she’d even love to be in a Broadway play.
But despite her versatility, for now Logan is focused on becoming one of the best breakers in the world. She’s targeting the 2024 Paris Olympics, where breaking will make its debut. In addition to chasing a medal—she thinks she has a good chance—she sees the Games as a powerful platform through which to share her values.
She’s outspoken about the importance of mental health and has been open about
Logan is outspoken about the importance of mental health and is open about her experiences.
experiencing depression and being diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder. She’s also a proponent of gender equality and women’s rights and has been vegan since she was 12. “I just want to spread love and positivity and light through what I’m doing,” she says, “and what better way to do that than the Olympics?”
We walk our smoothies back to the hotel. I ask Logan if she’d prefer I call her Logan or Logistx. “You can call me Logan,” she says. “Or Lo. A lot of people call me that too.” Logistx is her performance personality; Logan or Lo is who she is in her day-to-day life. Logan is the one who’s kind and considerate and makes sure others are comfortable and happy. When it’s time to battle, she’s Logistx—the B-Girl who’s here to win.
Logistx was only 10 when she joined her first breaking crew. “I felt like I could talk to her like an adult,” says mentor Valerie “Val Pal” Acosta.
In the beginning, of course, it was just Logan. As a little girl she was shy and did not appear to be particularly athletic. Her parents enrolled her in tennis and soccer. “Every sport they put me in I was really bad,” she laughs. “I was uncoordinated. I was just this little wet noodle.” But she did like to draw and sing, and she grew up listening to hip-hop. One day, when Logan was 7, her dad said he was taking her to her after-school drawing class. But when he opened the classroom door, she saw that he’d brought her to a kids’ hip-hop dance lesson instead.
Logan didn’t want to do the class. But her dad said just try it—if you don’t like it you don’t have to come back. So she stood in a corner and tried not to be seen. The teacher started teaching a simple two-step. “You know when you do something and you feel so embarrassed but you’re having a lot of fun?” Logan recalls. “That was it for me. It was like when you ride a roller coaster and it’s scary, but when it’s done you’re like, oh my god, I have to go again.”
Logan began attending hip-hop classes weekly. On her way to and from the classes, she’d walk by another studio, where she’d see a kids’ breaking class. That class was taught by a woman. Wow, girls can do this? Logan thought. Not long after that, she went to her first breaking class. The roller-coaster feeling was even more intense there. Logan was drawn to the athleticism that breaking involved. She was down on the floor trying things, and some of the moves were risky; they could hurt if you messed up. It was so interesting and fun.
Of course Logan wanted to take the class taught by the B-Girl. That B-Girl turned out to be Valerie “Val Pal” Acosta, who was 27 at the time. Right away Logan stood out—a calm, collected 8-year-old who picked up material remarkably quickly and asked analytical questions to break down moves. (Her dad coined her breaking name, Logistx, because she was always methodical and liked having a plan.)
Val started training Logan privately. Logan’s parents converted a bedroom into a little dance studio, hanging mirrors on its purple walls. Val would come over once or twice a week to coach Logan, and often she’d stay for dinner with the family afterward. Under Val’s tutelage, Logan blossomed. When she was 10, she joined Val’s breaking crew, Underground Flow. She was by far the youngest member, but “I felt like I could talk to her like an adult,” Val says.
From her very first dance class, Logan knew she had found something: “That was it for me.”
Apprenticeship and crews are both foundational elements of breaking culture. Ask a breaker about their background and they will tell you who they learned from. Logan credits her Underground Flow mentors for shaping her dance style as well as her lifestyle.
Before joining the crew, Logan ate like a typical kid—she loved McDonald’s. But many members of the crew ate plant-based diets. “We never told her you should be vegan,” says Val, but sometimes they would take her to vegan restaurants and let her try the food. “One day on her own, she was like, ‘I watched this documentary. I researched veganism, and I want to be vegan,’” Val recalls. “I was like, ‘Are you sure? You don’t have to go totally vegan; it’s OK to eat meat here and there.’ She was like, ‘No. After I’ve seen what I’ve seen and know what I know, I can’t not become vegan.’” Logan was only 12.
“I think that was the transition into my spirituality, because it introduced me to this idea of oneness over all,” she says today. “Not just connection and oneness with other animals and in terms of what I’m eating or not eating, but also with plants and the earth and other things in this physical realm.” Spirituality is important to Logan, though she doesn’t identify with any established religion.
By this point, Logan’s dance career was picking up. She had been battling for a couple of years. Young B-Girls like her were still rare, so she usually went up against boys and men who were older and bigger than her. It was intimidating, and Logan would always get nervous before battles. (“That honestly never went away,” she says.) In the days leading up to a jam she would be filled with dread. Often she’d cry. Now she knows this was her anxiety. But at the time the only way she knew how to cope was by hiding it.
When it came time to battle, the nerves got better. Logan won. A lot. She started to notice that people were intimidated by her. If she showed up to a jam, guys would ask if she was battling, and when she said yes, they’d say, “Oh, fuck.”
It was also around this time that Logan’s parents split. Her mom moved to Florida, but everyone agreed it was best for Logan to stay with her dad in California, for her career. She began homeschooling, and when she was 14, her dad got a place in L.A., because they were going back and forth to events so often.
Logan’s schedule was intense. She took gymnastics for five years, because her dad thought it would help her with her strength and power for breaking. So a typical day would begin with school, then homework, then one or two classes, either gymnastics or breaking or choreo.
“She had so many things going on— my personal worry was when can she just be a kid?” Val recalls. “Her schedule was completely packed all the time with classes and lessons and training.” Val and her boyfriend, Villn, would try to remind their youngest crew member that it was OK to take a break sometimes. “She didn’t really understand,” Val says.
Val could tell Logan felt a lot of pressure to win. But she didn’t know the darkness that had begun to envelope Logan’s young life.
At 12, Logan became a vegan. “I think that was my transition into my spirituality,” she says.
For Logan, the pandemic arrived almost like a blessing. She finally allowed herself to slow down.
When it comes to the topic of abuse, Logan is very careful about what she reveals. She will say it began when she was 10 and ended when she was 17, that it was mostly psychological but sometimes physical, and that it occurred at the hands of more than one person, though she does not want to say whom. In a blog post from last December, she wrote, “I ... have distinct memories as a kid being yelled at while crying during training, being forced to practice every single day and drill moves over and over when I didn’t want to.” Due to the abuse, at the age of 14, Logan became depressed. She lost interest in the things she used to love, including dance. Gradually, she began to lose interest in life.
Ironically, she was performing better than ever. The training was paying off: Thanks to the choreo work, she had developed a unique, dynamic style of top rock, and she had a remarkable amount of power, thanks to the gymnastics. She was winning events back-to-back. “I’m here at Red Bull, and at these events I’m Logistx,” she says. “I’m basically performing, I’m acting.” People asked how she was doing. Logistx was doing good. Then she would go home, where Logan felt empty and lonely.
The highs and lows were extreme. At 15, Logan attempted suicide. When it didn’t work she was relieved. She told her dad. It was a wake-up call for them both. The next week was Silverback, which she’d been training hard for—too hard, she now realizes. She went, but she and her dad decided the only goal would be to have fun. When she got there, she was relaxed. Logistx switched on. She knew what to do.
But if the victory at Silverback brought new opportunities, it also brought more attention and pressure. The mask of Logistx began to slip. “I’d travel and I would win and do good, but behind closed doors life was not something
I looked forward to,” Logan says. “It got to the point where Logistx is doing good but Logan’s struggles became so overwhelming, Logan would start to show through Logistx.” Her performance suffered. In November 2019, Logistx went to the BC One Finals in Mumbai and got knocked out in the first round. By early 2020, Logan was ready to quit breaking.
The pandemic arrived almost like a blessing. Logan finally allowed herself to slow down. She had just moved to Florida, to live with her mother for the first time in six years. She left the abuse back in California. In the absence of competitions and constant travel, she began healing. She started going to therapy. She meditated more. She built a new community around a local breaking school. She grew particularly close to one of the instructors there, a B-Boy called Nelz. They began dating. He loved and accepted her for who she was, and that helped her accept herself. In this new environment, she felt like she had more control over her own life.
She began to share her mental health struggles on social media, and she found strength in seeing that she was not alone. Through comments and DMs, she spoke to other people who had also experienced trauma, depression, anxiety. In being more honest and vulnerable, she felt more like her authentic self.
Lo had always been a nickname for Logan, but in the past year and a half she’s leaned into it more. “Back then Logan was the one who went through all the trauma and abuse and wore the mask, and the mask was Logistx,” she says. Lo feels like a new version of herself.
Thinking of your dance persona as separate and distinct is pretty common in breaking, says Acosta. In fact, so many breakers primarily use their performance names that it was at times difficult to track down the given names for many of the people in this story. Logan likens it to an actor or actress taking on a role, or an athlete becoming someone else when they put on a helmet or step on the court. Like Kobe and LeBron: “When they talk in their interviews they’re really cool, but you watch game footage and you’re like, dang, you’re kinda mean,” she laughs.
In the ’70s, when breaking was getting started among Black and Latino youth in the Bronx, battling was a form of turf war. “If you were a good dancer, you went to different neighborhoods and you were looking for someone to test yourself against,” explains Raphael Xavier, a professional breaker and professor of hiphop dance at Princeton University. “If you went into another neighborhood and they recognized you, you were gonna have to fight or dance or both.” Today’s B-Boys and B-Girls, of course, don’t actually brawl— you can’t touch your competitor in a battle. But that combative mentality is still core to breakdance culture. Intimidating your opponent through eye contact, or even dissing them through hand gestures called burns, is all fair game.
Logistx doesn’t burn her opponents; it’s not really her style. But she does have to switch modes to win. When I ask Lo what Logistx is thinking during a battle, she giggles in her endearing, Alvin and the Chipmunks way. “There’s a lot of shittalking,” she admits. “Like, ‘Oh I can smoke her right now,’ or ‘She ain’t got anything on me.’ It’s kind of fun, like you have a superhero character. I definitely see Logistx as this girl that’s unstoppable.” Her therapist has helped her realize, though, she doesn’t have to be Logistx all the time. These days she feels much more comfortable turning that on and off.
One day last year Lo was meditating. She did a mental exercise where she left her body and looked at herself from above. She saw a young girl. Wow, she’s really young, she thought. Why am I treating her like she’s a 27-year-old professional? For most of her life, Logan felt like she had to do it all, right now. If she didn’t keep achieving, she would become irrelevant. Now she realizes she has time. It’s why she feels ready to work toward the Olympics for the next few years, trusting that afterward she’ll be able to do the other things she hopes to do. “I think about how I’ve developed like a baby tree,” she says. “There’s all these leaves and branches I can still grow.”
Ihave one more appointment with Logan that day in Orlando. I’m watching her film a video with hiphop dancer Leon “Kida the Great” Burns. It’s a collab: Kida will choreograph and teach part of the routine to Logistx; Logistx will choreograph and teach Kida the rest.
Logan told me that people call her a sponge, because she soaks up material. Now I get to see this preternatural learning in action. Kida shows her his set once, and in their first run-through she’s already got it—they’re almost perfectly synced. I ask Nelz, who’s sitting on the floor next to me, if this is normal for professional dancers. He says she picks it up really quickly, even for a pro.
Logistx was photographed in Miami, near the William Powell Turnaround Bridge, on September 7.
Now it’s Kida’s turn to learn from Logistx. Improvising on the spot, she demonstrates a simple breaking sequence that ends with her dropping to the floor and kicking both legs out while balancing on one hand. “Oh my god,” Kida says, shaking his head.
“Just try it,” Logistx says, smiling.
If you didn’t know, Kida is kind of a big deal. His Instagram videos have generated over 4 million followers, he’s danced with Usher, he won So You Think You Can Dance. But he’s having to work much harder to pick up the breaking moves. “Woo!” he whistles, watching Logistx demonstrate a move on the floor. “That looks crazy.” He tries it a few times himself.
“There you go!” says Logistx.
They spend most of the next 20 minutes getting Kida acquainted with the breaking footwork. Each time they rehearse the routine, Logistx gives it 100 percent, like any world-class athlete.
But when the cameras start rolling, I can see the entertainer, too. If Logistx was at a 10 before, she turns it up to 11 now. She is energy incarnate, popping and flowing with ferocity. She tips her baseball cap with swagger and flashes the camera a smile that all but sparkles. She’s having fun. A small audience has gathered, entranced by the dancers.
Breaking is both sport and performance. “When you’re an athlete you have to be focused; when you’re an artist you have to be free. When you’re an artist-athlete, you have to be both,” Logan will later tell me.
When the shoot is over, Kida and Logistx high-five. The little crowd hoots and claps. That night, I will watch Logistx in an exhibition battle, but it’s a video she posts to Instagram on Monday that I keep thinking about. Dressed all in white, Logistx breaks in the center of a mostly empty room. Halfway through, a lone woman walks in and watches. Logistx—or is it Logan, or Lo?—drops to the floor, sweeps a leg around and underneath herself, then flows into a tripod headstand and spins ethereally, one leg extended toward the heavens, the other folded. To accompany the clip, Logan selected a song by Nas, titled “Nobody.” It’s about finding a place where you can be anonymous, where no one knows your name, where you’re far away from your problems. The snippet she chose goes like this: “All my time has been focused on my freedom now/ Why would I join ’em when I know that I can beat ’em now?”
