I was out at Belvedere Square's Summer Sounds at the Square one recent Friday night with a friend, watching two Baltimores try to come together. I was trying to come together myself, having just had a difficult conversation with a beloved friend who, unlike me, saw ambiguity in the videos of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile being shot by police a few days prior. I saw no gray. I saw instead the fact that black skin stirs such fear and mistrust, subconscious or not, that those men ended up dead. I saw it, I felt it. I can't pretend it isn't there. It started before any of us were born; we all inherited it. I say this as a former Baltimore City prosecutor, someone who has worked alongside black and white lawyers, police, sheriffs and judges — many of whom are trying mightily to do the right thing in this tough city of ours.
That night I felt like a lot of Americans do, heartbroken over the state of the world, over the rage and guns and violence and hatred marking this moment in history. My answer to the melancholy I was feeling was the same it has been since I was a teenager: Go dancing.
Dance floors, I have found, are one of the few places in East Coast cities where white, black, gay, straight, Asian, Latino can come together in true meritocracy. One nation under a groove, united by music and sweat and lights and flow. When I happen upon such varied floors — or workplaces — I instantly relax. I was spoiled by more diverse, polyglot cities like New York, D.C. and Montreal before moving to Baltimore many years ago. Diversity puts me at ease; to me, it simply feels the way the world should.
When we arrived at the square, a DJ was playing hip hop and funk, while the crowd — mostly African American, mostly middle-aged — was doing a line dance. A few white people who knew the moves — and a few who didn't — joined in. The scene changed rapidly when the band came back from break. Although the All Mighty Senators, a local rock funk band, is somewhat racially mixed, their music appealed mainly to the white segment of Belvedere's crowd. The black people mostly vanished back to their seats. This was not quite the unity I was seeking.
I ran through my litany of go-to spots for Friday night dancing. As a white mom of a certain age, my list is not extensive. You won't find me near Power Plant Live, for example, where the patrons are just a few years older than my teen-aged children. My friend and I decided on Station North. After ruling out the goth and metal bands on tap at the Metro Gallery and Depot, we ended up at The Crown, a hit or miss hipster lounge/bar/band venue just north of Charles Street. Tonight was a hit. It was their monthly zodiac party, and it was exactly what I needed.
The first DJ, a young African American woman, spun mostly hip hop. Some of it was old school, a comfortable throwback. Despite the fact that the air conditioning couldn't keep pace, the floor was full. We were black, gay, straight, male, female, Asian and Latino sweating together above Charles Street. The second DJ, a man, turned it up a few notches, and asked "Where are my black people at?" and led a chant of "Black Lives Matter" against a pulse of music. We all joined in. Mindful of decorum, I melted back into the crowd, yielding my preferred dance spot up front. I felt neither uncomfortable nor unwelcome. I felt like it was just where I needed to be.
While I understand this is a far cry from doing transformative political work, I welcomed the chance to join my fellow club-going, music-loving Baltimoreans to voice my support for the simple notion that black lives matter too. And not just on the dance floor.
Joyce Lombardi is a lawyer and of mother of two who lives in Baltimore; her email is jlombardi100@gmail.com.