You've seen it. Everywhere. From the neon-lit stages of the MTV Video Music Awards to the seemingly infinite scroll of your TikTok "For You" page, twerking has become a global shorthand for "party." But if you ask the average person what is the meaning of twerking, you’ll probably get a shrug or a joke about Miley Cyrus. That's a mistake. Honestly, it's a massive oversimplification of a dance that has deep, centuries-old roots in the African diaspora. It isn't just a TikTok trend.
Basically, twerking is a dance style that involves squatting and thrusting the hips in a rhythmic fashion. It’s athletic. It’s expressive. It’s also deeply misunderstood. To really get it, you have to look past the 2013 pop culture explosion and look at the streets of New Orleans, the clubs of West Africa, and the complex ways Black women have used their bodies to reclaim space and joy for generations.
The Linguistic Roots: Where Did the Word Come From?
The word itself feels modern, right? Like something cooked up in a studio in the late 90s. While it definitely gained its "official" status in the Oxford English Dictionary around 2015, the term has been kicking around a lot longer than you'd think. Lexicographers suggest it might be a blend of "twist" and "jerk." Others argue it’s a variation of "work."
Back in 1820, there were records of the word "twirk" (spelled with an 'i') referring to a twisting or jerking movement. Fast forward to the 1990s in New Orleans. That’s where the modern meaning of twerking really solidified. It became synonymous with the city's burgeoning Bounce music scene. Check out DJ Jubilee’s 1993 track "Do the Jubilee All." He literally commands the crowd to "twerk it!" It wasn't a suggestion; it was an anthem for a culture that was building something entirely new out of rhythm and bass.
It’s More Than a Dance: The Cultural Meaning of Twerking
When we talk about the meaning of twerking, we’re talking about Mapouka.
Mapouka is a traditional dance from the Côte d’Ivoire (Ivory Coast). Specifically, it belongs to the Avikam people. Historically, it was a dance of celebration, often performed at festivals or to show joy. It focuses on the movement of the glutes, much like modern twerking. When African people were brought to the Americas through the transatlantic slave trade, they didn’t just lose their traditions. They adapted them. They evolved them.
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In West African dance traditions, movement in the hips and pelvic region isn't inherently "dirty" or "hyper-sexualized" the way Western, often puritanical, lenses view it. It’s about groundedness. It’s about the earth. It’s about the drum. When you see someone twerking today, you’re seeing a filtered, hyper-commercialized version of a movement that has survived for hundreds of years.
Bounce Music and the New Orleans Connection
You cannot talk about this move without talking about New Orleans. Period. Bounce music is the heartbeat of twerking. Artists like Big Freedia, the "Queen of Bounce," took this localized subgenre and turned it into a movement of self-expression and liberation.
In the 90s, New Orleans was a pressure cooker of creativity. Bounce music used heavy sampling, "call and response" vocals, and incredibly fast beats (usually around 95 to 100 BPM). Twerking was the physical manifestation of that sound. For the LGBTQ+ community in New Orleans, particularly Black queer performers, twerking became a way to defy traditional gender norms. It was—and is—about power. It's about taking up space in a world that often tries to make you small.
Why the World Got Confused in 2013
We have to talk about the Miley Cyrus moment. At the 2013 VMAs, Miley performed with Robin Thicke and, well, she twerked. Sort of.
To many Black creators and historians, this was a textbook case of cultural appropriation. Why? Because the "meaning of twerking" was suddenly stripped of its history and presented as a "new," "edgy," or "rebellious" thing for a white pop star to do. It became a costume. This is where the disconnect happens. When a culture is "discovered" by the mainstream, the original pioneers are often pushed to the sidelines.
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Sociologists like Dr. Gaunt, who has written extensively on the musical play of Black girls, point out that these movements are part of a sophisticated "body language." When it's taken out of context, it loses its nuance. It becomes a caricature.
The Physicality: It’s Actually a Workout
If you’ve ever tried to do it properly, you know it’s exhausting. It’s not just "shaking." It requires significant core strength, flexibility in the hip flexors, and some serious quad endurance.
- Muscle Engagement: You’re essentially holding a deep squat. That's your glutes and hamstrings on fire.
- Isolation: The "trick" to twerking is isolating the lower back and pelvis from the rest of the upper body. That takes mind-muscle connection.
- Cardio: Doing this for a three-minute song is the equivalent of a high-intensity interval training (HIIT) session.
Fitness instructors have actually leaned into this. "Twerkout" classes are a real thing now. People are realizing that the movements used in dance halls and bounce clubs are actually incredible for building functional strength.
Misconceptions and the "Male Gaze"
One of the biggest misunderstandings about the meaning of twerking is that it is strictly for the "male gaze." That it's purely about being provocative for men.
If you go to a Bounce show or a dancehall party, you’ll see something different. You’ll see women dancing for themselves and for each other. It’s a community experience. It’s about the "riddim." In many African and Caribbean cultures, these dances are performed in groups. It's a display of skill and stamina. Sure, it’s sensual—but equating sensuality exclusively with "pleasing men" is a very narrow, Western way of looking at it.
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The Legal and Social Backlash
Twerking has faced its share of policing. In the early 2000s, videos of students twerking often led to suspensions or "moral panics" in local news. There’s a racialized element to this policing. When Black bodies move in ways that are powerful and rhythmically complex, it is often labeled as "indecent." Yet, when the same moves are commodified by fitness brands or white influencers, they are suddenly "empowering" or "trendy." This double standard is a massive part of the conversation regarding the dance's social meaning.
How to Respect the Culture
If you're going to participate in the culture, you should probably know what you're participating in. Understanding the meaning of twerking means acknowledging the Black women and the New Orleans artists who kept the tradition alive when it wasn't "cool."
- Acknowledge the Source: Recognize that this dance comes from a specific lineage. It’s not a "TikTok dance."
- Support the Artists: Listen to the pioneers of Bounce. Big Freedia, Cheeky Blakk, and Choppa.
- Check the Setting: Like any dance, there’s a time and a place. Understanding the context helps avoid the "costume" trap.
What to Do Next
If you’re genuinely interested in the movement—either as a dancer or a cultural observer—don't stop at a Google search.
- Watch the Documentary: Check out "All on a Mardi Gras Day" or documentaries specifically focused on the New Orleans Bounce scene.
- Take a Class from a Culture Bearer: If you want to learn the move, find an instructor who understands and teaches the history of the dance, not just the mechanics.
- Listen to the Music: Dive into the 90s New Orleans archives. Feel the rhythm of the "Triggerman" beat (a staple in Bounce music).
Twerking is a celebration. It’s a survival tactic. It’s a piece of history that you can feel in your bones. By understanding the meaning of twerking, you move away from the "trend" and toward a deeper respect for the resilience of Black joy and creativity.
Stop looking at it as a punchline. Start looking at it as a legacy. The next time you see the move, remember the Avikam people, the streets of the 9th Ward, and the power of a beat that refuses to be quieted.
To dive deeper, look into the work of Dr. Kyra Gaunt or the archives of the New Orleans Public Library regarding the evolution of local music. Understanding the "why" behind the "how" changes the dance entirely.