Hip Hop Havarti

After a day of intense seminars by judges, academics, practitioners, and educators, the attendees of the conference were in for a treat.

The suits piled into the small space behind the flimsy room divider in Ballroom #2. An elaborate wine and cheese spread had been arranged. We began politely sipping our wine and chatting in hush tones about the day’s themes.

Then, from the corner of the room, under the large luminous chandelier, using a patch of the ubiquitous leaf-patterned carpet as their stage, three young hip hop artists emerged. Bandannas. Baggy pants. Running Shoes.

We fell silent. A piece of gorgonzola dropped out of the gaping mouth of the elderly fellow beside me.

The artists sprung to life to the loud repetitive beats blasting from the large speaker that had been set up beside the performance space.

I looked around at my shell-shocked colleagues. Those who had begun the wine and cheese in casual conversation, now appeared to be huddled together for support. Some looked bemused, others fearful.

A few tried to ignore the music and kept chatting. Some began to clap along to the beat. One woman began doing what looked like a jig. The rest of us exchanged furtive, sidelong glances acknowledging how incongruous this scene had just become.

But as I started to catch the vibe being thrown out by this music group, I was beginning to tune into the vibe from the audience that was now coming into stark relief:

The vibe of collective uncoolness.

I have always been interested by this elusive concept of cool. I enjoy studying groups and figuring out who is the alpha in the pack. I’m fascinated by that hair-clipped poof that women in my area are wearing. But most of all, I’m interested in the way in which people’s perceptions of their own coolness shape their interactions with others.

Certainly, M & I had plenty of time to contemplate the concept during the high school prom while waiting out the slow songs in the girl’s bathroom. M was my unofficial date. S, who wore his grandfather’s kilt to prom, was my other unofficial date. When our friends lined up for a big group photograph at A’s garden pre-party, he stood (about half a foot) behind me. In the photograph, rather than the intended illusion of him being my date, S appears to be some random guy in the background who happened to stick his head in the frame and smile.

I’m not the only one who has made a study of cool. My friend Y has an elaborate theory about "Cool" with a capital "C" and "cool" with a lower case "c". Her theory is that the former is a main-stream type of high school, highlighted, lululemon Cool. The latter is a post-prom counter-culture anti-establishment cool. It is far better, she says, to be little "c". She assures me that this is what I am.

According to research, while true coolness is innate, it can be studied and copied. Author Neil Strauss has written a book, "the Game," for men who are not innately cool. The author studied cool men in their natural habitat and has wrote a guide to emulating cool. Apparently, by following a few simple rules, men can effortlessly bag women.

In reality, my interest in coolness has lost any emotional force and has become purely academic. I no longer feel sorry for the prom girl me who spent ten minutes with her hands under the dryer, while Stairway to Heaven droned relentlessly in the next room. I would like to think that if I were to attend the prom today I would wear a funkier dress, avoid that awful chicken, and, with or without a date, I would dance.

So why couldn’t I get into the hip hop today?

The heels - just couldn’t do it in the heels.