NDEO’s Guest Blog Series features posts written by our members about their experiences in the fields of dance and dance education. We continue this series with a post by Kieron Dwayne Sargeant, Assistant Professor of Dance, Skidmore College. Guest posts reflect the experiences, opinions, and viewpoints of the author and are printed here with their permission. NDEO does not endorse any business, product, or service mentioned in guest blog posts. If you are interested in learning more about the guest blogger program or submitting an article for consideration, please click here.
When the Rhythm Hits: Teaching Calypso and Feeling the Pocket
In every classroom I enter—whether in the U.S. or back home in Trinidad—I bring rhythm with me. It’s not something I add to the dance. It is the dance. Rhythm is the structure, the entry point, the thing that tells you not just when to move, but why to move. As both a dancer and a drummer, I don’t separate movement from rhythm or sound from action. In the Caribbean, we don’t dance on top of the rhythm—we are inside it.
This is especially true when I teach Calypso, a form that’s often misunderstood. People hear the word and think of Carnival, costumes, or old steelpan tunes on the radio. But Calypso is more than that. It is a rhythmic language that holds history, movement, phrasing, conversation, and emotion. It’s a dance form shaped by storytelling and improvisation, marked by bounce, swing, and wit. In the studio, Calypso becomes a full-body experience of musicality—it trains timing, phrasing, weight, and relational rhythm. But most of all, it trains you to feel when the rhythm hits—and how to ride it when it does.
At Skidmore College, where I teach dance in a liberal arts context, many of my students come from ballet or modern backgrounds. Some have never heard a live drum before. Others are used to following eight counts or relying on mirrors. When I begin class with sung rhythms—ka-tum ka-ta-go—they sometimes hesitate, unsure of what’s being asked. But slowly, they realize that rhythm is not something they’re supposed to catch up with. It’s something they can lean into. I watch their shoulders drop, their steps deepen, their focus shift from performing movement to feeling it. That shift is everything. It’s when they start dancing in the pocket.
Being in the pocket means the movement lands where the rhythm lives. It’s not about being early or late. It’s not about hitting hard or being soft. It’s about letting the rhythm take you somewhere. In Calypso, that somewhere is joy. Not fake joy—not a smile pasted on for the stage. Real, cellular joy. Joy that comes from moving in time with something bigger than yourself, something that’s pulling from deep memory and cultural groove.
That’s why I use Calypso so much in my classes. It opens up the body and invites release. It gives students a clear rhythmic structure that’s easy to enter but complex enough to keep deepening over time. A typical session might start with basic weight shifts, grounding into a bounce pattern. We’ll layer in shoulder rolls, torso spirals, or small flicks of the arm that mirror the phrasing of the rhythm. I cue not with numbers, but with sound. The voice carries rhythm. My singing becomes the map: ka-ka tum-ka, ka-ka tum-ka-ta. Students follow not by memorizing, but by listening. They begin to recognize how movement breathes when it’s synced with groove, not just count.
And then there’s the call and response. Calypso is not a solo journey. It’s built on interaction. I’ll clap a rhythm. The students echo it. I’ll step out a variation. They answer with their own. Sometimes we break into groups: one leads, the other follows half a beat behind. Then they switch. Then they witness. It’s never about perfection. It’s about attention—being present enough to respond and confident enough to pass the rhythm on. Everyone gets to lead. Everyone gets to echo. That cycle flattens the hierarchy and raises the energy. The classroom becomes alive, pulsing with co-created groove.
Skirt work adds another layer. For many students, the skirt starts as a costume piece—something they think belongs on the outside of the performance. But once they start dancing with it, they learn quickly: the skirt is a rhythmic device. If your timing is off, it will trip you. If your phrasing is clear, it will lift with you. We use the skirt to mark emphasis, to shape space, and to teach timing without stopping the flow of the movement. In Bele or Calypso work, the skirt amplifies the rhythm. It becomes a partner—one that reflects, redirects, and responds. It teaches without speaking.
And the teaching doesn’t stop with the movement. I always tell my students: sweat is not just the result of hard work. It’s a sign that you’ve entered the rhythm. In Trinidad, I learned this early. The elders knew how to move for hours without tiring. It wasn’t about pushing—it was about pacing. About letting the rhythm carry you, not force you. That’s what I try to model in my classroom. We don’t aim for exhaustion. We aim for sustainability. We move with knowledge—where to place effort, how to stay grounded, when to release. These aren’t just dance techniques. They are life techniques.
There’s a wellness logic embedded in Caribbean rhythm traditions. Movement is communal, responsive, and emotionally attuned. Rhythm makes room for the body to speak, to be heard, and to be held. When I teach Calypso, I’m not just offering students a new style. I’m inviting them into a system of knowing where movement, rhythm, and relation are always in dialogue. It’s not performative. It’s functional. It’s cultural. It’s healing.
Over time, students begin to feel the difference. They stop dancing to meet expectations and start dancing because the rhythm gave them no other choice. They come up to me after class saying things like, “I didn’t realize how much I needed that.” Or, “I didn’t know rhythm could feel like this.” That’s the moment I wait for. When the music hits—and they feel no pain. Only presence.
That’s what rhythm can do. And that’s why I teach it first. Not as an add-on, not as an embellishment—but as the core. Because once you’ve felt what it means to be in the rhythm, you never want to move outside of it again.
KIERON DWAYNE SARGEANT, from Trinidad and Tobago, is an Assistant Professor of Dance at Skidmore College and an expert in African-Caribbean diaspora dance traditions. With an MFA in Dance from Florida State University and an MA in Community Dance from Ohio University, he has over two decades of international teaching and performance experience. Founder of the Kieron Sargeant Dance and Dance Education Foundation, his travels and research span the United States, Canada, Cuba, Grenada, Barbados, Togo, and Nigeria, delving into the morphology of African diaspora dances in the US. Kieron remains actively engaged in collaborative projects affiliated with Hofstra University and Rutgers University. His collaborations with international scholars and artists further underscore his commitment to understanding and enhancing the global impact of African influences on dance traditions.
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Photo Credits: Featured photo & dance images by Karen Johnstone, headshot by Kenneth Johnson