Ten young men spill into a Brooklyn bound A train late one evening. It’s a normal night in Bed-Stuy and train passengers do “normal” things when they see a mob of rowdy teenagers board -  yank their children to their bosoms, hold their bags like they possess gold, and look everywhere that’s not in the direction of the noise. Normal. After all, those kids could be gang members. I mean, some are wearing red, and some blue. Don’t want anyone to get shot.

In the midst of all the adolescent voices there is something happening. There is a rhythm brewing as they circle and clap on beat. “No music!” they all shout in unison. “No music!” clap, clapclap, clap. Again, like normal, passengers assume that these kids are some kind of train performance troupe, which gives them even more reason to pretend to ignore them. Wouldn’t want them to assume they had a buck or two to drop in a soggy hat. But had the chagrin riders looked, they would’ve seen a young man in the middle of the circle, his arms flailing, and his legs swinging around, bonelessly. On his face, a smile to light the darkest alley. His friends egg him on until he bows out, and then the next taker jumps in the circle for his gyration grandstand. No music. Just hands and youth, and a misunderstood good time.

I’ve seen this before, back in the late eighties and early nineties. But the (no) music wasn’t coming from handclaps, but rather from clinched fists and knuckles rapping on grimy wooden desks, and mothers’ kitchen tables. Or…pretty much on any hard surface. The goal was to recreate the boom bap sound of the blossoming music and movement we all know as hip-hop. If it wasn’t banging on tables at lunch, it was beatboxing, using your mouth and chest to make sounds in the schoolyard. The older onlookers were the same. Confused. Nervous. Unwilling. The circle was also the same. Always the circle. But it usually was more than one young scrappy teen in the middle. It was typically two, and they were usually battling, kicking freestyles (when freestyle was still free) and delivering underhanded dozen shots to the opponent, who was almost always a friend. Shine time.

And before the beatboxing, there were picket songs, which revolved more around words than rhythm. Young people – teenagers – sang acapella freedom songs using nothing but the sound of their marching feet and their unbreakable spirits as their (no) music. And before that, but in the same vein, was hambone and all types of foot stomping, chest patting, noise making, running rampant throughout the slave territories of America. Young folk circled then too, and took part in what was called ring shouts, which some say are the derivative of the Sunday service shout dance.

What does this mean, and why does it matter? Simple. Those ten young men, on the Brooklyn A train, with pants sagging and long hair, are keeping true to a very old tradition. They are not troublemakers, or misfits, but simply young. They can still feel the life pulsing within them. They haven’t been hardened by bills and heartbreak yet. They still realize that fun should be had as often as possible, even if it’s on a train. And that dancing and making noise can be used not only as entertainment, but as a freeing mechanism, which is the role it has always played. No need for music. They can still hear it even though many of us no longer can. And they can still dance, even though many of us no longer try. So to all the mature, “responsible” people of the world, when you see them clapping and laughing, don’t clutch your bags. Shake that good foot loose of routine, and show them how it used to be done.

Jason Reynolds