There is a tragedy that is spreading amongst our children and we must work now in order to stop this genocide or we will become assailants in continuing this ignorance amongst ourselves.

Let me explain what I have witness and seen happen with my own eyes.

After a full night of stanky legging, getting my dougie on, swangin my rag, shoulder leaning, two stepping, and even a Souljah Boy with a Superman that hoe, do you want to know what happened when E.W.’s Da Butt came on? 

“Doing da Butt…AWWW Sexy Sexy, ain’t nothing wrong with doing the da butt all night long.”

Because right then, Moses parted the Red Sea and everyone 26 years old and under stood on the wall while me and my crew and probably everyone else in the club who was motivated to go to college because of School Daze, acted a damn ass while showing ours asses in rhythm to a blazing horn section.   And did it with so much pride and power that you would have thought that they were doing a casting call right then and there. I mean, job titles came off, pretensions behaviors put on hold, getting digits became a to do item, fresh perms and weaves were forgotten, because the only thing that matter during them four minutes and fifteen seconds was your butt and the music in synchronized harmony.

The crazy thing was, we had onlookers.  Like we was a damn exhibit at the Art Museum.  Like they was some scientists and we were lab rats that were undergoing musical experiments, trying to figure out what causes gyrations and thrusting.  They looked at us utterly confused as if they were in the middle of a physics class trying to solve equations.  So, they got left out and we sweated our five-minute in a pure funkified bliss.

But here is where the epiphany lies in. 

After old school booty tribute, the DJ played song so everyone could come together in dance unity, the grown folk of the night laughed and high-fived each other on the fact that they “still got it”, and started the unity come together dance of the ELECTRIC SLIDE and the onlookers still stood on the wall.  And I was in disbelief.  Like someone spit on my Grandmother’s grave.  Do you realize how UNIVERSAL the Electric Slide is? That is the dance of the nation, hell even the world. I would not be surprised if I travel back in time and saw a bunch of tribal leaders around a campfire were doing the grapevine to the right and then back to the left.

I mean, you cannot get through this world without knowing the electric slide.  White, black, Latino, Chinese it doesn’t matter.  The dance of power is electric.  It is done at office parties, weddings, celebrations, promotions, holiday festivals, it is where we all come together and get on the good foot, and if the people of this new generation don’t know it…they will destroy the attempts at racial diversity the dance created in its heyday.

You can’t go to an office party and “superman that hoe”.  Everyone other dance step is an excluder, whether it is Latin steps with a hip spinning twist, the tai chi calming nature, or hard rock n roll, whatever it is, its not UNIVERSAL you have to take a class in order to get it.   The electric slide has a variety of levels from novice, to expert, and as long as you are going the right direction and at the right time, you are IN.  And it is easy enough to learn in a two-minute shuffle setting with a friend.

This is detrimental.  I mean be honest, you know good and well that you saw someone doing the electric slide and you changed your perception about them. Be honest.  The dance is an icebreaker, can go to nearly 80 percent of music so just put on a record, doesn’t matter who and if our children don’t know how to electric slide they will not know the power of communication that defines time, age, economics, and color.

Save a nation.  Teach a young person the electric slide.  Save our universal code and harmony.  Four counts to the right, Four to the left, Take it two steps back (same foot) Rock forward, rock back, step and change direction.

See how it is?

Each one, Teach one…Save the world.

Electric Slide, your future depends on it.

Peanut!  Peanut Butter!

Jelly.

Peeeeeaaaanut! Peanut Butter!

Jelly.

That was the childhood song I learned toothless in kindergarten with all the other loud lisping kids.  A tribute to the best sandwich of all time.  This song had me with my own theme dance, because right after screaming out peanut butter I always made sure my little miniature jam would shake with the jelly. 

Toothless, two pieces of bread sloshed together with grape jelly and smooth and creamy peanut butter would smack between my taste buds and life was grand. A grand tradition that followed me everywhere high school, college, and even into my early thirties.  Of course, this sandwich had hit varieties, syrup and peanut butter, strawberry jam, crunchy peanut butter, wheat bread and even toasted wraps.  Don’t matter, in the middle of the night, midst a hunger crunch, I would hum my little tribute song while spreading one the love, making sure to shake my jam with every note.

So when sitting down watching “Biggest Loser” I am studying, half tuned in to the show, living my life like it is golden.  Proud of my new lifestyle, I have to say that I have been great at eating nutritious the whole day.  Cooking my own food (a miracle for independent gadget number one) and staying as natural as possible. I mean at the time of studying I have my bottle of water and an apple. KUDOS!

Well “Biggest Loser” has this temptation challenge where the contestants have to eat snacks and candy in order to find a golden ticket.  While they do this the host is hollering the calorie count of each item they digest.  I decided to listen and tempt myself at the same time, because a sister really has NO intention of going back to that lifestyle (except for peach cobbler—everyone has a weakness). 

Cupcake.  500 calories. (DAMN)

Frosted Doughnut.  290 calories. (Whew, not a biggie)

Pretzel.  350 calories. (Okay, bye Aunt Annie.  Not stressed)

Peanut Butter & Jelly Sandwich.  400 calories. (WHAT THE HELL?)

My whole life has been exposed as a lie.  My beloved peanut butter and jelly sandwich a daggone 400 calories.  I jumped up and had to peer in closer to the television.  Not peanut butter and jelly, right. I wish I was. AUGH!  After closer inspection, I realized I have been killing myself.  Not only was their PB&J was 400 calories, it was spread like white people spread sandwiches.  I mean when I created my stuff, it would be jelly sliding all over the place, peanut butter bunched up and hitting every corner.  I was the Shaft of PB&J, a bad mutha…watchayoself.

My childhood comfort food was a destination for a blubber stomach.  Scabbed knee, Momma dusted it off and gave me a sandwich.  Bad day at school, Momma cut the sandwich into the shape of heart.  Please recognize that the Washington household brought toasted PB&J gingerbread people for the 5^th grade School Holiday Festival.  A family that spreads together stays together. 

Do you know how much of the American dream was conceived around the edges of a PB&J sandwich? How many kids dream of becoming pilots, doctors, teachers, and even presidents?  Not one dreams of clogged arteries, high fat intake, or blood sugar and that is the sandwich that is the bridge towards that downward spiral.  Kind of like your transition drug.  Once you can start taking two or three hits of PB&J, you are hooked for life.  I could cry.

 In fact, the truth of the matter is there are too many habits that we incorporate in the innocence of our youth.  From me making my students pop M&M’s in bribes to be good to sugar laced drinks gulped down with the idea of getting a taste of fruit, we are setting ourselves up to be forever bowing down to the Goddess of Love—Handles. And for me, it started with a tribute song with me shaking my jam and jelly in ode to my homie Peanut Butter. 

I’m going cold turkey.  Forget the pains and the cravings.  Peanut Butter is cut off, no longer a stakeholder in my life.

Cold TURKEY.  Oh should I say….COLD PB&J.  Starting right now….after this last one hit. 

Peanut!  Peanut Butter!

Jelly.

Peeeeeaaaanut! Peanut Butter!

Jelly. R.I.P.