Arnoldo de los Santos Palacios Mosquera
By Arnoldo de los Santos Palacios Mosquera
Published in SaturdayApril 1949
We know that the black man was not brought to America as a messenger of joy, much less in that sense. He came loaded with chains to work from dawn to dusk. Naturally, they stripped him of everything, even the loved ones with whom he was not fleeing. But since the soul is untouchable, the black man managed to enclose in it his song, his rhythm, his dance. And after the task, after the blows of the force, the pain was transformed into a pure feeling, like that torn centuries before from Solomon by a black woman, the most beautiful among maidens: “The time of song has come and in our country the voice of the turtledove has been heard”…
That is why he never let himself be overwhelmed by suffering. She was not affected by slavery. He was not affected by the poverty of material goods. He was not affected by the distant homeland. He continued singing accompanied by the noise of his ordinary instruments. There has been such a wealth of joy in the soul of the black man that that joy has reached the dimensions of a tragic feeling, when the black man has danced around his dead. In the most remote regions of the Pacific coast, and on the banks of the rivers in Chocó, it is still danced at the wake of children who died at birth. This has been a topic of scandal for the civilized, who judge such manifestations of the black spirit as savage. In truth, modern life has quickly put an end to certain authentically black customs.
It could not be otherwise when the black lives life today, with today’s people, the majority trained according to the rhythm of European civilization. But there are indelible marks of black influence in American music. And especially in relation to our dance theme, it is the black rhythm that is imposing everywhere.
A party in the black regions
They are tropical regions, the environment invaded by suffocating heat, noisy laughter, permanent joy. The black man looks anxiously at the almanac and it seems to him that the days are going by very slowly, because the day of the patron saint’s holiday does not arrive soon. In fact, parties wear black at all times.
She works hard and begins to have a series of brightly colored dresses made. Contrary to his temperament, he tries to save a few pesos to spend exclusively on liquor and dancing. He might not eat. But what is his drink he does drink, and he gets drunk and screams and fights.
Finally the first day of the festival arrives and the entire population takes to the streets. Music played by everyone in all cardinal points of the town sounds. Children playing the “shawm” are the first to start dancing, with the perfection that an older person would do. At night they come out in some places with a black population, the so-called mad cows. These are of a wooden skeleton in which the tail of a branch with thorns stands out, and the head with horns covered in cloth, tarred, or soaked in gasoline. In the early hours of the night there is usually a walk enlivened by music and people around the cow whose lit horns illuminate everything, shouting and dancing.
It’s practically a carnival. Because then troupes come out representing each neighborhood, troupes of very good taste, which set the tone for the vivid imagination of these people to create thousands of fantasies, touched with excellent humor and perpetual laughter.
And it is precisely the carnival spirit that makes dancing one of their fundamental entertainments for these happy people. There cannot be a party, no matter how simple you want it, where dancing is not the main point; even though about three hours of dancing.
black dance
The last time we saw a black dance was in January. It was the most popular and therefore the most authentic. It was an immense room, profusely lit, full of air. In one of the corners was the cantina, full of beer, brandy and rum. Upon entering that room, the intoxication began instantly, because the alcoholic air was so penetrating and the gaze of the zigzagging brunette was so enveloping.
They had a record player there with all the latest dance pieces. But around nine at night the town’s musicians arrived. The drummer went directly to the cantina and with his wide, malicious laugh, he served himself a triple shot of brandy; He let out a shout of joy and sank back on a leather seat, placing his drum on his thighs, preparing to play it as soon as the baritone, an old instrument and musician, began to play:
I saw a spider with hair, I saw a spider with hair, in the wing of my house…
The spider is going to bite you; grab her from behind. The spider is going to bite you, hold it by the feet.
Once the musicians were gathered, clarinet, baritone, drum, cymbals, requinto, the dance was woven. There were about six black girls dominating the scene. One of them had a red dress, her lips painted with red lipstick as well. On the other, the navy blue crepe dress, trimmed in white, and white shoes stood out; Her face was powdery and her cheeks were very softly pink; She had viper eyes, this woman. It was enough to see her in passing for the lightning of her gaze to accurately hurt the coldest of mortals.
The others were funny too. All with agile bodies. The men each took their partner and the music rolled, making the flooring, the walls, the ceiling shake. The one in the red dress was already sweating from every pore. Her feet slid describing spider webs on the floor, while curved in perfect balance backwards, the dancer moved her head, arms, muscles, shoulder blades, and undulating hips, producing the impression of multiplying. The same thing, with a difference in sex, was done by men. There were also many people watching the dance. Suddenly the music stopped, while “the teachers” approached the canteen to take large gulps of brandy. They all laughed out loud and then the music started again. It might no longer be “The Spider,” but it was:
The cowboy is singing a tune and the afternoon is dying in the river.
He carries his hat on his back when the cowboy sings.
He is always accompanied by a star, when the cowboy is singing…
And within these simple, very simple phrases, but with deep content because they express the simplicity of the soul of the people who create them, sing them, dance them, the hours go by and the bottles are emptied. Nobody remembers the commitments while the black woman is breathing next to her, agitated, sweaty, masterfully interpreting the rhythms of “vallenato”, “cumbia”, “rumba”. Because for the black man, the fundamental thing, since life is so bitter, is to always be able to express his noisy joy. Fill all the spaces with his frank laughter. And although she considers herself to be this indolent race, she knows that she is not, but she tries to overcome the blows by facing them with her song.
The post Alegría Negra. By Arnoldo Palacios appeared first on Chocó7días.com.