By Freddie Ferber

Growing up in Jersey City shaped me in ways I didn’t fully understand until much later. From the 3rd grade through high school, I lived and learned in predominantly African‑American neighbourhoods. Those years weren’t just an influence — they were my cultural upbringing. The rhythm, the walk, the talk, the humour, the grounded way of moving through the world… all of that became part of who I was becoming.

And speaking only from my own experience, the African‑American people I grew up with were some of the most down‑to‑earth, unpretentious, straightforward folks I’ve ever known. Combine that with the no‑nonsense energy of New York, and you get a kind of honesty and realness that leaves a permanent mark on you. It certainly did on me.

My earliest memories are on Orient Ave. in Jersey City, where my very first friends were Edwin and Larry Myers. We were just kids running around the block, long before I had any sense of culture or identity — but those friendships were the beginning of everything. Not long after, my world expanded to friends like Bum Bum, Jimmy Lee Coleman, Wesley Booker, Cheryl Butler, and Percy Oliver. These weren’t just names — they were the kids I laughed with, played with, and walked to school with.

And those walks to school were something else. That’s actually where I learned how to swear. We’d all be marching down the sidewalk, testing each other with, “Do you say ___?” and then someone would top it with an even bigger swear word. They had every swear word under the sun, and we thought we were the funniest, toughest kids alive. It was innocent mischief, but it was also part of the rhythm and camaraderie of growing up together.

I had an interesting relationship with Wesley Booker. In the beginning, he used to bully me, but once he saw how rambunctious and rebellious I was in school, something shifted. Wesley was one of the toughest kids in the school, and he went from picking on me to protecting me. I remember him stepping in more than once, putting an arm out and saying, “Don’t mess with my boy Fred.” From that moment on, he had my back.

Around that same time on Orient Ave., another memory stayed with me. My mom was a jazz singer, and sometimes she’d rehearse upstairs in our apartment — singing while playing stand‑up bass, with other musicians jamming along to swing tunes. She was also teaching me some of the old standards like “Fly Me to the Moon” and “Basin Street Blues,” and even showing me how to play swing rhythms with brushes on her cocktail drum. I can still hear her voice singing a line that stuck with me forever: “It’s gone and started rainin', lonesome as a gal can be.” I remember being outside with my friends, all of us running around and dancing to the music drifting out the window. Swing was literally pouring into the street, mixing with our games and laughter. I didn’t realize it then, but that sound was becoming part of me.

School itself had its own rhythm. One memory that never left me was PE marching. Before moving into a predominantly African‑American neighbourhood, marching in PE was stiff, straight, almost military. But at my new school, PS 16, which was about 90% African‑American, the moment the instructor called out “Left, left, left‑right‑left,” everything changed. The kids around me slipped into a jive‑walk without even thinking — bopping, weaving, moving with a groove that turned marching into a dance. I remember just standing there, almost shocked, watching the whole line move in unison with this effortless rhythm. It was the first time I saw everyday movement turn into music.

And then there was Sharky, the old wino who stood outside the bar on the corner. Every time you said hello and asked how he was doing, he’d grin and say, “Nice is nice! Couldn’t be any nicer!” I’ve never heard anyone say that before or since. These people, these voices, these rhythms — they’re the roots I carry with me into swing dancing today.

A lot of my childhood revolved around Journal Square — the same Journal Square from the swing tune “Jersey Bounce.” I didn’t know it then, but I was literally growing up inside the geography of swing history. That music was part of the air around me long before I ever stepped onto a dance floor.

So when I first started swing dancing and learning Lindy Hop, I had no idea where the dance actually came from. I just knew I loved it. But once I learned that Lindy Hop and swing dancing were created by African‑American dancers, everything shifted. That was the moment the light went on.

Suddenly the jive walk, the grounded rhythm, the coolness, the attitude — the very way I used to walk and move as a kid with my African‑American friends — wasn’t separate from the dance. It was the dance.
I remember thinking, “Oh… you mean you can put this in there?” Meaning: the way I grew up walking, talking, and moving could actually live inside the dance itself. That realization felt like a homecoming. Swing didn’t feel like a dance I learned — it felt like a dance I returned to.

And there was another layer to that realization — something I didn’t understand until I felt it in my body. When I first learned Lindy Hop, I danced it pretty straight. I was focused on the steps, the patterns, the counts. But once I learned that the dance was created by African‑American dancers, something clicked.

Growing up, the way we walked down the street — that jive walk, that bounce, that grounded rhythm — wasn’t just style. It was culture. It was movement shaped by the people around me. And suddenly I realized: you can dance Lindy Hop the same way you jive walk.

That looseness, that pulse, that everyday rhythm I grew up with — that’s exactly what Black dancers brought into the Savoy Ballroom. They didn’t switch into a different body to dance. They danced the way they already moved in life.
That’s what hit me. I didn’t have to dance Lindy Hop “straight.” I could dance it the way I grew up moving.

It wasn’t about copying anyone — it was about recognizing that the movement I already had in me was part of the same lineage that created the dance in the first place.

As we continue celebrating Black History Month, I’m holding gratitude for the African‑American dancers and musicians whose creativity shaped the art form that has given me so much joy. And I’m also honoring the African‑American friends I grew up with — the ones who taught me how to “bop‑walk,” and who instilled the feeling, the music, the humor, the attitude, and the flavor of that culture into me. Their soul is in the way I walk, the way I hear rhythm, the way I move through the world. Their legacy isn’t just history to me, nor something I learned from a book — it’s lived experience. It’s part of my story, part of my upbringing, and part of the way I move through the world.

Going over those memories really brings me full circle and helps me understand even more about my roots. My mother was a classic, no‑nonsense New Yorker — she never sugarcoated anything. When I was 18, I left the East Coast. I didn’t like it there for a number of reasons, so I moved to California — first to San Francisco, then to Los Angeles — and I loved it. My world expanded. I tried to distance myself from the East Coast. I even went to great lengths to change my speech and my accent. My mom knew all of this. Fast‑forward to the end of her life, when she was in the hospital in rehab. I went to visit her on the East Coast, and we had a good visit. As I was leaving the room, she called out, “Hey — and don’t forget where you came from!” At the time, I didn’t realize how deeply those words would land. But writing this, remembering all of this… I understand now. I never really left. My roots were always with me.

Note: The thumbnail image was created with Microsoft Copilot, based on my childhood memories growing up in Jersey City. It represents the kids, the streets, and the spirit that shaped my love for Lindy Hop and swing music.