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TikTok’s Dance Prodigy Is Just Getting Started
Hey Besties! Welcome to Her Campus 2.0: A special little space on the internet, created for Gen Z, by Gen Z.
Writer: Destiny Hall Editor: Iman Hariri-Kia Designers: Jenna Freitas, Megan Charles © Her Campus Media 2021
Her Campus summer 2021 Cover: The Cultural Reset Issue
The site was founded in 2009 to uplift college women’s voices and create content that spoke directly to them, while helping launch the careers of the next generation of journalists. Twelve years later, that mission still drives us, but we also understand that the world — and our audience — has changed. And we’re ready to meet you exactly where you’re at. After spending a year indoors, you’re dealing with mental illness at unprecedented levels. The social fabric of our country is unraveling. The ocean is literally on fire. And between the internet, social media, and the news, you’re consuming information and trends at lightning speed. Being extremely online is starting to feel extremely exhausting. But we’re not here to coddle you. We know you’re ready to take action into your own hands and enact change. And we want to join you. We understand that college students are multi-faceted and ever-evolving. So, expect a dissection of TikTok trends, followed by resources for getting involved in campus activism. Come for the heated debate over Olivia Rodrigo’s latest release, but stay for the internship advice. And the common thread are the voices, perspectives, thoughts, feelings, and opinions of college women — aka, you. At HC 2.0, you’ll also find our first-ever digital issue, featuring TikTok star and choreographer, Jalaiah Harmon. The best part? The issue was photographed, styled, creative directed, and reported by a team made up entirely of Gen Z talent. Whoever you are, wherever you are, there’s a place for you here. A community of students who are unapologetic about what they like and who they love. An audience more interested in being authentic than appearing cool. Come as you are and take what you need. We’re so happy you’re here. Love, Iman Hariri-Kia, Deputy Editor
Hey Besties, Welcome to Her Campus 2.0: A special little space on the internet, created for Gen Z, by Gen Z.
IMAN HARIRI-KIA
The heart of Her Campus has always been community.
Her campus Summer 2021 Cover Issue: Cultural Reset
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Hair & Makeup Artist @niajordxn
“A Cultural reset to me is my home town, Atlanta, GA. Living in Atlanta is experiencing cultural reset in real time. Here, I get to experience the return of the Divine Feminine (women gaining their power back), the acceptance of the LGBTQ+ community, the rise of minorities in the entertainment industry as well as in political parties, and just all around innovation in every part of the city. And I get to work with all the powerful creatives, from singers and actresses, to models and photographers, or artists of any medium.”
Stylist & Creative director @morganmckensey
“To me, cultural reset means any trend or idea that has shifted the way we think and consume media — it can trickle down to what you wear, what you listen to, and the people you follow.”
photographer @shaquillekokumo
“Being from Atlanta, you know that not one trend lasts and there are always new ways of doing things. The way fashion, music and politics change are all examples of cultural resets. In photography, I think about the old styles that are being brought back into today’s time, such as shooting with film. Also I think of how African Americans are starting to be the highlight of fashion music and art.”
Writer @destiny_e_hall
“A cultural reset is a moment where I’m suddenly aware that I’m witnessing history. It is watching BLM grow, the strength of #MeToo, and witnessing gay marriage legalized. People who decide to change the world — then do it.”
A look at the gen z creatives behind her campus's first ever cover: cultural reset
I can’t explain it; maybe it’s the way that she sways with confidence, gliding from move to move in a way that just makes sense. As the song plays, I think, “This is how people were meant to dance.” Confidently. Freely. Fiercely. When Jalaiah dances, you do too. She doesn’t give you the choice not to. Jalaiah Harmon was born and raised in Atlanta, Georgia. A trained dancer with a passion for choreography, Jalaiah began filming and posting videos online. In 2019, one of Jalaiah’s dance routines went viral, and her life changed overnight. Almost two years and 2.9 million TikTok followers later, the teenager is a 21st century twist on the American dream — and she’s only 16.
by Destiny Hall
The first time I see her, she’s on a tiny screen. For Jalaiah Harmon, dancing seems to come as naturally as walking.
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There’s Jalaiah The Choreographer, a calm and cool persona who is dedicated to mastering her skillset. And then there’s Jalaiah The Teenager, who is naturally excited, but a little shy when you first meet her. A bit bubbly once she warms up to you. She has a tendency to gush in a way that strikes me as almost girlish, giddy about everything. Whether it’s her love for all things chocolate (“I love chocolate cake, brownies, cookie dough, and definitely cookies and cream ice cream!”), or describing her at-home dance studio, Jalaiah’s emphatic energy is contagious. Don’t get me wrong: I’d be excited about having my own dance studio, too. I’ve seen it featured in her videos before – It’s a neutral-colored room with wooden flooring, a flatscreen TV, and the infamous TikTok LED lights lining the ceiling. Much cooler than any creator space I’ve ever seen, its ideation is credited to an unlikely source: the pandemic. “Most studios were closed and classes were put on hold, so my parents gave me a section in our basement to build my own dance studio,” she tells me. “That way, I could have room to continue creating choreography, instead of staying in my bedroom.” Jalaiah is regimented, holding herself accountable for choreographing new dances three or four times a week. While other teenagers are scrolling through their phones, Jalaiah is busy growing an empire through dance. When I ask about her process, she assures me that creating choreography is simple. Reader, I can assure you that her process is not simple.
I soon learn that there are two sides to Jalaiah.
"While other teenagers are scrolling through their phones, Jalaiah is busy growing an empire through dance."
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She says “good production” in a way that implies that everyone knows what distinguishes good production from bad. As if you, too, could have an ear for what makes music go viral. She tells me she discovers inspiration anywhere and everywhere, and that the source of the song doesn’t matter — Instagram, Spotify, TikTok. She’ll focus on the lyrics and figure out how to translate the song into dance. She’s not just creating choreography, but exploring the narrative. She’ll practice a few times, telling the story over and over again. And then, voila! All she has to do is press post. It strikes me, and not for the first time, that Jalaiah is a prodigy. Whether or not she knows her own talent is unclear, but Jalaiah admits that dancing has always come naturally to her. But she owes her work ethic to being classically trained. “My training really helped improve my focus, build my stamina for learning challenging choreography, and making sure that movements are clean,” she says. “Even though I’m not a part of a dance studio anymore, I’m really glad I had that experience to learn different styles of dance and perform in competitions because I’m not limited to the opportunities that come my way.”
Jalaiah listens for songs with good production value.
"Whether or not she knows her own talent is unclear, but Jalaiah admits that dancing has always come naturally to her."
Her moves are cleaner, more precise. Her confidence comes through when she dances, earned through years of experience and a dedication to learning. Choreography isn’t just a hobby for Jalaiah; it’s her life. Every aspect of Jalaiah’s identity is marked by dance. In her free time, she watches other choreographers’ videos in an attempt to find inspiration for her own choreography. Jalaiah is constantly looking to improve her own dancing style. But Jalaiah is most inspired by her friends. Friendship and dance naturally intertwine, and her dance studio also doubles as a gathering spot. I can easily picture it: Jalaiah and a gaggle of teenage girls, dancing in a circle, laughing together.
Once again, I am struck by just how young Jalaiah is. Her professional demeanor can undercut the fact that she’s still just a teenager, doing what she loves with the people she loves. Her discipline to her craft may be mature, but her spark is marked by youth. But unlike most other teenage girls, Jalaiah has big plans that extend past posting TikToks. She wants to continue to create choreography in a space that isn’t yet built. “It’s my dream to open a dance studio in Atlanta, to create a space for young choreographers to teach and practice their craft,” she says. “Most of my friends are dancers and create choreography, so it would be cool to open a space for them and other dancers to showcase their talents and grow.” Jalaiah talks about her dreams as if they are an undeniable part of her future; A reality, instead of a possibility.
Scrolling through TikTok, I begin to notice that there’s a difference between Jalaiah and other creators.
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she sheepishly tells me that it’s not necessary to have a degree in order to become a choreographer. She knows this. But getting a college degree and the traditional collegiate experience is non-negotiable to Jalaiah. Everyone, according to Jalaiah, should get a degree if given the chance. Jalaiah has a keen understanding that education is a privilege, and she refuses to waste an opportunity to be educated. Her conviction is so powerful, I’m instantly swayed to believe her. There’s a pause as I consider my next question. The “Renegade” question was one I knew I had to ask, but felt a little uncomfortable doing so. As I researched Jalaiah’s career, I couldn’t help but feel angry and a little bit frightened on her behalf. Her rise to fame was complicated — far too complicated than she deserved. Her famous “Renegade” choreography had been stolen from her, predominantly by white TikTok creators. Jalaiah claimed the choreography in the comments of the creator’s videos, but was met with ridicule. Eventually, celebrities began to rally behind Jalaiah and the “Renegade” dance, and she was credited. But in the process, the scandal became the story, not Jalaiah’s talent.
"Eventually, celebrities began to rally behind Jalaiah and the “Renegade” dance, and she was credited."
When asked if school is a part of that reality,
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Instead, she focuses on her gratitude for the recognition that she did receive. “I knew my life had changed forever when popular artists and big brands started contacting my team for choreography and actually wanted to pay me for it,” she says. “At the time, I was too young to have an actual job and earn my own money.” You won’t find Jalaiah trolling in the comments section or shading creators in interviews. There’s simply no room in Jalaiah’s heart for hatred. I ask her about the #BlackTikTok strike. Within the app, Black creators continue to be uncredited for their work, claiming their chances at fame were stolen. As a result, Black creators have stopped creating choreography until crediting issues are resolved. Despite being one of the people who inadvertently started this conversation, Jalaiah was hesitant to weigh in. Perhaps, I speculate, she’s tired of being asked about credit instead of her choreography, unable to hear her own name without Charli D’Amelio’s being uttered in the same breath. “It’s sad that this is still happening, where creators, especially people of color, women, and minorities, feel like their work is uncredited or undervalued,” she tells me. “I support every creator’s right to be credited and profit off of their work and I do think that platforms and companies are listening to youth and creators more than ever. I’m optimistic that we are seeing a shift in how these things are handled.”
"I knew my life had changed forever when popular artists and big brands started contacting my team for choreography and actually wanted to pay me for it."
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This series of events made me so angry, but Jalaiah refuses to be bitter.
We work in worlds where we often feel disrespected. Jalaiah had to dance her way into spaces that were not always welcoming. When she was implicitly told there was no room for her, Jalaiah made room. She tells me a secret that we all know, but some do not like to admit: “Being Black in America, and a woman, isn’t always easy.” She tells me her identity as a Black woman influences everything that she does — not just dance, but everything. Despite the challenges, she tells me that she’s “proud to be Black woman and a positive industry, especially for other young Black women and creators in my generation.” Even her wildest dream, working with cultural icon Missy Elliot, would be a game-changer, because it will inspire other “dancers and creators and show them that nothing is impossible.” I take a second to ask Jalaiah what “cultural reset” means to her. Her response is wonderfully hopeful: “It’s changing how we view and accept the differences of others, which is really what I feel we all should practice doing to make the world a better place for everyone. In 2021, racism and inequality shouldn’t even exist, but it does and some people in our society should do better with how they treat people just because they may not think or act the same as they do.” For Jalaiah, dance is a tool to create change. She compares dancing to marching on the frontlines of a protest. In order to create change, you have to express your feelings, looking at activism through a different lens. But she’s right: Every social change boils down to a moment of expression of self and concern for others. Jalaiah can fight for equity through dance. If anyone can achieve a cultural reset through the medium, it’s her. I take a second to watch Jalaiah’s choreography again. The videos look different to me now. With every move, Jalaiah is trying to tell her audience something different. With the flick of her wrist or twist of her body, she says: Look at me. Listen to me. I’m talking to you. She’s urging us to understand. I didn’t understand before. But Jalaiah? I think I get it now.
This is the moment that I realize Jalaiah and I have something in common: We’re both young, Black, female creatives.
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