In many cities, Black and brown communities have faced generations of poverty, violence, displacement, and neglect. But when those communities speak out or fight to survive, their struggles are called chaos or crime. Meanwhile, when similar issues hit white communities, they are called crises. They are met with sympathy, with coverage, with action. That difference does not come from the pain itself. It comes from how whiteness has trained people to view it.
This dance is my way of breaking that frame. The choreography starts grounded, almost heavy, because that is what living under that double standard feels like. The body carries the weight of being seen and not seen at the same time. The movements are sharp and contained, showing the frustration of being constantly misunderstood or dismissed.
In one section, the choreography becomes circular and repetitive. That repetition represents the cycle that communities of color go through. The crisis, the blame, the silence, the next crisis. It is a loop that keeps spinning while the world acts surprised every time. The body begins to show fatigue, but it keeps moving. Because that is what we have always done. Keep moving. Keep surviving.
Hard Times in the Cities also challenges the idea that whiteness is neutral. It is not. It has shaped systems of power, and it has shaped how people respond to suffering. This dance does not make space for that silence. It interrupts it. It demands recognition. Not just of the pain, but of the systems that decide whose pain matters.
By the end of the piece, the movement slows. Not because the story has ended, but because there needs to be space to sit with it. This is not a performance that offers a clean resolution. It asks a question. It leaves the audience with the responsibility to look at what they believe about hardship, and where those beliefs come from.
Hard Times in the Cities is not about asking for sympathy. It is about demanding truth. It is about refusing to accept a version of struggle that centers whiteness while erasing everyone else. It is about claiming space in a conversation we have always belonged to.
Orange Moon is not just a dance. It’s a journey I had to take with my own reflection. I created this piece from a place of searching. Not for approval and not for applause, but for a version of myself I could finally recognize. Not the version the world sees when it looks at my skin, but the one that lives deeper, beneath the surface. The version that feels, questions, loves, breaks, and rebuilds.
The idea came to me one night when the moon looked orange. It was soft and surreal, like it had something to say. It didn’t feel like a regular moon. It felt like it was reflecting something different. Not just light, but energy. Emotion. Me.
That’s when I realized I had spent a lot of time looking for reflections that would show me who I am. But too often, they only showed what I look like. The color of my skin. The shape of my body. The labels and expectations people attach to me. Orange Moon became my answer to that. A way of saying, “See me. Not my surface, but my soul.”
The movement in this piece is fluid but grounded. I wanted it to feel like water meeting fire. Graceful, but powerful. Every motion means something. There are moments when I reach out, as if I’m asking, “Do you see it yet? Do you see me yet?” And then there are moments when I pull inward, realizing maybe I don’t need a mirror after all. Maybe I just need truth.
There is a section in the middle when everything slows down. That’s the turning point. It’s when I stop searching outside myself and start listening to my own rhythm. It’s quiet, but full. That’s when the heart takes over.
Orange Moon is about letting go of what I’ve been told I am and holding on to who I really am. Not defined by appearance, but by purpose. By love. By truth.
This dance is for anyone who has ever felt unseen or misunderstood. It’s a reminder that the light we need isn’t always out there. Sometimes, it rises inside us.
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