second round
(4) Flo Rida, “Low” (feat. T-Pain)
slid past
(12) DJ Casper, “Cha Cha Slide”
254-182
and will play in the sweet 16
Read the essays, listen to the songs, and vote. Winner is the song/essay with the most votes at the end of the game. If there is a tie at the end of regulation, we will play a one-hour overtime (and repeat until we have a winner). Polls close @ 9am Arizona time on 3/13/24. (Note that Arizona does not do Daylight Saving time, so AZ time now = Pacific.)
The Truth About "Low": caroline macon fleischer on Flo Rida and T-Pain
You should only continue reading if you are willing to accept the truth. Because once you become aware of the truth, you will be different. You will withdraw like a shadow into a weaker, surrendered corner of yourself.
If you dare to know at this cost, here goes:
“Low” is a song about doomed love. Everything is a song about doomed love. Once it happens to you.
After it happens, for the rest of your whole life, you’ll hear songs differently from most people. When the DJ puts “Low” on and everyone on the dance floor pushes chest-to-chest, lap-to-lap, you’ll shy away in your feelings. You’ll cross your arms and reconsider the lyrics, fixating on the thousands of freckly disco lights chasing each other across the wall. Some chase one another playfully like Duck, Duck, Goose. Others stay back, more reserved.
You’ll know which of the dots you are, which ones share your personality. You’ll remember you used to like dancing, before love was revealed and you watched it get fractured.
You’ll press your fingers into the space above your abs and between your ribs. You’ll be thankful for your diaphragm, a muscle which seems to give you the release you need dependably, helping you let go.
Because before you knew the truth, you had a good, long standing relationship with “Low.” You got low for the first time in eighth grade, you purchased baggy sweatpants in its honor, you smoked countless joints listening to it, your Reeboks on the gas of that beat up Saab, that beat up Honda, that beat up Beemer, the Jetta. Swiping lip gloss in the makeup mirror. Before you knew.
Each time the song found you, you recited the lyrics by heart. You knew them at 21, pressed up against the wall by a stranger at the club and at 17, saving room for Jesus between your body and that of a guy you liked from church, despite his being so obviously gay. You knew them when you wandered the halls in the morning of this apartment and that, unsure of what to wear, and when you dressed to the nines, ready to tear it up.
But what you understand now is that “Low” is a crooning ballad, not the catchy, campy dance hit you were sold.
You’ll understand, humbly and with grand aching, it’s not about apple bottom jeans but about agonizing over someone, something, that doesn’t want to be, can’t be, in no way would possibly ever be, yours.
Now, when you get home from the club, you’ll read the lyrics like a storybook, searching for comfort—that others, too, have fallen lovesick, crazed. You’ll feel for him.
The dude’s cleaning his pockets, all in hopes that she’ll simply notice him. He digs cash and she dances. But he loves her—that’s the twist. It’s what hasn’t been shown how it is in the music video, a dusty stream of light projecting Step Up 2 on the wall.
By the end of the song, he’s out three grand. But you’ll know three grand will be the least of it, that his suffering is just at the start. The real cost is his identity, his perception of the world. The secret is that doomed love causes, without fail, a worsening poison—a psychological transposition.
Because before you fell into love like this, trees seemed to grow upward, reaching toward the sky. After you fell, you saw the truth—sure, branches and leaves appeared to grow up. But the reality was that trees grew down—a steadfast dissension of roots, hellbent on cracking the Earth’s core.
You won’t be able to shake this feeling that growth is inherently detrimental. You’ll worry that all growth is like this, breaking something along the way.
Even as you find courage to turn away from your doomed person and walk toward the sun, you’ll incur a blistering sunburn. You’ll have no choice but to turn back and look once more at this person, noticing their face has blended into the horizon.
Their disappearance into the crevice between hill and sky will remind you that one day they will die. And this will cause you great distress, because you know that if they die sooner rather than later—and probably even if they die later—you won’t be invited to the church service. Because you are doomed, too, as far as they’re all concerned.
But you can’t escape it. Because they are right. That first there was love and then there was doom and then there was nothing after. Everything else was just pretend and the truth was hiding in plain sight.
The truth is we are all down bad. We share this. We know this. We will never admit that we know this but we know. Flo Rida knows. T-Pain knows. When this sort of love is mentioned, everyone at the table will giggle in discomfort. You’ll giggle with them, but you’ll know.
Caroline Macon Fleischer is a writer, teacher, and mom living in Chicago. Her first book The Roommate is a psychological thriller that was published in 2022 and her second book, A Play About a Curse is a horror forthcoming in 2025. Beyond creepy novels, Caroline loves writing plays, films, strange honest essays, and poetry.
THANK YOU, DJ CASPER: BEN JATOS ON “CHA CHA SLIDE”
In the morning hours of October 6, 2002, in a long neglected neighborhood park, a boy of 15 was shot in the arm. 15 hours later, a different boy was then shot in retaliation for the first boy in the same park. Neither of the shootings were fatal, and in fact, neither required a hospital stay of more than three days, but the ramifications were felt at the local high school, 1.5 miles away from the crime scene.
In 2002, I was in my tenth year of teaching English, but only my second at Fort Vancouver High School, in Vancouver, Washington, located directly across the Columbia River from Portland, Oregon. My new school was a large, urban school with students hailing from over 50 countries. The school itself was a pleasant place most of the time, with hard-working teachers, a great principal, kids who got along to get along, and an “Us against Them” mentality. Our school was one of four high schools in the district and it was definitely seen as the “ghetto” school. We had the oldest and ugliest building, sad, fluorescent lighting and low ceilings, the worst athletic teams, and it had been years since a district administrator had set foot in our school. A year prior to my arrival, the district even changed the boundaries of the four high schools, removing our only high income neighborhood and giving us rows of low-income housing apartments, which put our percentage of students eligible for free lunch at 85%. (Gerrymandering happens everywhere.) We also became a dumping ground for every expelled student in the district. Get kicked out of school for bringing a weapon to class? Miss some time and then enroll at Fort Vancouver. Finally, each student in the district who was determined to be “not proficient” in speaking English (immigrant students) was routed to our school.
For me, one of my favorite parts of working at Fort Vancouver was walking through the halls between classes and hearing so many different languages being spoken. It was beautiful and gave me such optimism about life. I loved working there and although it seemed like things were stacked against us, as a school, it didn’t matter. My students were amazing and I soaked up as many of the cultures as I could. I went to Quinceaneras as an honored guest. I went to a Bosnian restaurant at 8:00AM on a Saturday to watch pirated European soccer on tv and eat incredible Bosnian food with a group of men who spoke no English but one of my students invited me to join them. I went to a baptism at a huge gorgeous Russian church. I went to a wonderful family party where I had soul food and authentic barbecue. On top of that, my classes were places of learning and support and I looked forward to going to school every day.
But that neighborhood shooting wasn’t good as both kids that were shot were students at Fort Vancouver and both had older sisters at school. There were definitely gangs in the neighborhood, but they usually left that stuff outside the school. This time was different. The week after the shooting was Homecoming Week and was supposed to be filled with exciting dress-up days, pep assemblies, and merriment for all culminating in the football game Friday night and the Homecoming dance on Saturday night. This was a big week for many high school kids.
Monday started at 7:00AM with a PA announcement calling for a staff “stand up” meeting in the library immediately where we were informed about the two shootings and told to be visible between classes in case of trouble. There was trouble. Numerous near fights and a couple that escalated into hands being thrown occurred on campus as boys and girls from both sides of the rival factions got involved with payback. Tuesday and Wednesday were more of the same and kids were getting suspended daily. Admin just kept trying their best to de-escalate but they were ignored and put into reaction mode.
Thursday is when things took a downturn. The final hour of school was to be spent out on the football field watching Powderpuff Football between the girls in each grade. There was talk of canceling the event but the assemblies had been drama-free thus far so the admin decided to move forward with the festivities. The event was fine, a bit misogynistic in hindsight, but at least no fighting. Teachers were instructed to be on high alert and monitor the crowd and then about halfway through the game, heads in the crowd started all turning toward the parking lot. A stream of about 15-18 cars sped into our lot, about 200 yards from where everyone was. They parked haphazardly and slowly a bunch of men got out of the cars. Some were dressed head to toe in blue and each of them, at the least, had a blue bandanna on their person somewhere. The football game stopped as many of the students decided it would be a good time to just go home. The teachers moved toward the cars, hoping to provide a buffer in case anything transpired but most kids just walked back to the school or went the other way. Many ran and it was pretty chaotic. A few of our students wanted to go confront the men but the staff kept them under control as we could tell their hearts weren’t really in it. The men in blue just stood outside their cars, about 50 men in total, and they stared daggers at the boys we were holding back about 50 yards away. After a couple minutes, sirens were heard in the distance and the men got back in their cars and were allowed to drive away. It was legitimately scary.
Friday’s assembly was canceled although that evening’s football game went off fine. The dance on Saturday was allowed to take place but with extra security and extra chaperones, of which I was one. There were about 500 kids in attendance, all looking great in dresses and dress shirts and having a decent time dancing, but seemingly distracted as well. It was like everyone was waiting for something bad to happen. There were about 25 kids at the dance that had ties to the two beefing gangs, including both of the shooting victims and their older sisters. Friday had been the first day back in school for each of the four and the counselors and principal had spoken to each individually about not seeking retribution but nobody was sure how it would play out. The four kids sat at two different tables far away from each other and took turns eyeballing and ignoring each other. None of them were dancing; instead they all sat there watching the dancers and sipping on punch. It was distracting but most of the 500 didn’t pay them much attention.
Halfway through the dance, the first notes of DJ Casper’s hit song, “Cha Cha Slide” rang out. I had never heard it but apparently the kids had because almost every single one of them shrieked and the dance floor was flooded and immediately somehow organized into rows of kids. “We’re gonna get funky” and the kids screamed more. “Everybody clap your hands” and about 500 kids start clapping in sync. “One hop this time” and it was like the kids had practiced this a thousand times because they were all on point. I walked over to get behind the dj stand because I wanted to see this mass of humanity from the front. “Cha cha real smooth” and the kids all did a little cha cha move. It was an incredible sight but what caught me off guard was four kids in the front. “Hands on your knees! Hands on your knees!” and those four kids were next to each other and smiling, having a blast. One boy’s arm was in a sling but he was in the moment. The other boy couldn’t get too funky but he was in it too. The sisters eyeballed their brothers, made eye contact with each other, and smiled. I saw this happen. It was incredible. “How low can you go? Can you go down low? All the way to the floor?” and they did. They all got down to the floor and laughed and screamed cries of joy and relief and the boy with the sling fell on his butt and he was helped by the other boy and they laughed together and kept dancing.
The last hour of the dance was perfect. Kids stayed late, they danced nonstop, and the two boys and their sisters sat at the same table and chatted and danced more. Something magical happened that night and all sense of trepidation was replaced by feelings of hope and love.
It’s 21 years later and I still teach English at Fort Vancouver. I’m much less involved at work (having a family will cause that), but I still love my school. We’re still a melting pot of languages, cultures, and kids, although we’ve lost some of that “Us against Them” mentality. I just think we haven’t recovered from the pandemic a couple years ago because the spirit and familial feel just isn’t the same. But whenever I hear Cha Cha Slide, I’m reminded that anything is possible, music can heal, and my school can still be the best.
Ben Jatos is a 31-year veteran of teaching high school English who writes for pleasure after his student essays get their teacher feedback. Married to Jessica for 15 years, with a 12 year old daughter, Frances, Ben has had work published in The Rumpus, Slice Magazine, and a few other places. This is his first essay for this wonderful website.