I’ve been obsessed with the phenomena of twerking for some time now. I was first captivated by the music video for Nicki Minaj’s hypnotic single, Anaconda. The plethoric presentation of fleshy behinds bouncing in sync to a booming beat struck awe into my heart and soul.
I fantasized about twerking, but I never actually attempted it; I always had something better to do such as studying for exams and simply meeting the daily demands of living a productive life.
But the other day after waking up at noon and feeling the late March breeze on my face as I strolled down 8th avenue with a sublime black sesame latte from Paris Baguette, I found myself in a strange mood best described as boredom coupled with restless energy.
I decided I would learn to twerk.
In the privacy of my own room, I assumed a squatting position and moved my hips back and forth in the prescribed manner, but something was terribly wrong. Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing happened. And then it hit me: I don’t have an ass. I can’t make my ass clap because I literally don’t have one.
I stood sideways in front of the bathroom mirror, shimmied my hips and observed the result. Indeed my stomach, thighs and my buttocks jiggled, but my butt did not bounce the way Nicki’s does. I suddenly felt like a manly nun.
Since I’ve always considered myself relatively curvy, I’ve never questioned my body’s femininity. But suddenly I was hit by feelings of insecurity. What’s wrong with me. Why don’t I have an ass—or more specifically—an ass that can bounce?
I called my dad because 1) I was mentally distressed and 2) sometimes he has the answers.
“Everysing ok?” he asked warily.
“Yes everything’s fine—well kind of.” I took a breath. “I just realized my ass is kind of flat?”
“What?” he sounded appalled. “Not frat at arr! I see so many pancake butt, and you have hao pigu. Should be very happy!”
I nodded silently in agreement. “But—“
“Why is it so different from like—Nicki Minaj’s butt? Like why do all black women seem to have such huge bubble butts?”
“Ah,” he sighed, “just the evolution, Jennifer. Just the evolution. Let me explain to you.”
“There’s an explanation?” I asked apprehensively.
“Jennifer everysing in rife have explanation. In Africa so hot, you see. This charrenging environment select for the women with the fat ass. Fat is good. The fat help to carry children, to provide reserve during famine. But tell me, Jennifer: what is the problem with the fat?”
I tried to think on my feet, “it makes it difficult to run?”
“Think harder, Jennifer. Think Africa.”
It clicked. “Fat insulates body heat!”
“Yes,” he sounded excited. “Exactry. So the surface-area vorume ratio maximized by all the fat in the ass. Not too hot, but still have plenty of fat. Understand?”
“That makes so much sense. Did you come up with that on your own?”
“Of course not,” he laughed, “daddy no genius. It’s genetic trait called Steatopygia. I read paper about it. Anthropology so much fun!”
“It is,” I agreed.
“You should try study somesing. I worry about you. All you do is sit around and think about your ass. You should go grad school.”
I rolled my eyes. “I gotta go dad. I have things to do.”