Breaking, an urban, hip-hop dance style that originated in the United States in the 1970s, is my favorite new Olympic Sport. If you missed the b-girls spectacular dance battles, you missed a once-in-a-lifetime event, as Los Angeles has declined to include breaking on their 2026 Olympic sports roster (boooo!). In the Finals, Japan’s b-girl Ami won gold by spinning, freezing, windmilling, and toprocking.
But for me, the true star was 36 year-old Australian Racheal Gunn, whose b-girl name is RayGun. Despite scoring zero points (yes, you read that correctly), her infectious enthusiasm for the artistic sport truly defined the heart of the Olympics Games.
RayGun holds a doctorate in cultural studies. A lecturing professor at Macquarie University, RayGun cites her academic focus as being the “cultural politics of breaking.”
Her Olympic performance was simple, creative, and, um, unique in its childish ridiculousness. She hopped like a kangaroo. She did a sideways worm-like move. She crawled around and waved her arms. She performed the “sprinkler.” She did not look like a breaking Olympian. Her score tally was zero.
But she was also clearly having the time of her life. Her infectious smile and joyful attitude captured hearts and sparked countless memes. Australia didn’t have a breaking athlete, so she volunteered. Why not? In Aussie speak, she just gave it a go.
There’s much to be said for giving it a go. For just showing up, even when you know you have no chance of winning. For taking an opportunity – and a chance – to simply share something you love.
I’m disappointed in the internet trolls who trashed RayGun’s performance. Which takes more courage, putting yourself out there or sitting on your couch and judging others for trying? One hateful viewer called her a pathetic amateur.
But amateur isn’t a bad word. It arises from the Latin amare, which means to do something simply for the love of it.
I’m thinking about RayGun this week, as I am about to play the Pioneer Festival with my daughter Izzie. We have three guitars, two shaky (some might say off-key) voices, a great set list, and 45 minutes to play our hearts out. Imposter Syndrome is strong in my head and heart. I can’t play as well as my daughter. I can’t sing as well as my friend Lauren. I’ve never had vocal lessons. Didn’t even pick up a guitar until I was 40. Who am I to be on stage with an amped guitar and a microphone? My friend Gator, who booked us, really just needed someone to give it a go. We joke we should call ourselves No One Else Was Available.
But amateurs do what they do from love. And I love playing with my girl, a blessing I will never take for granted. You might remember there was a time when her anxiety and depression was so deep, she wouldn’t – couldn’t – even pick up her instrument. Music was one of the medicines that healed her. So to be asked to play with her every day? I’ll never say no.
So when I struggle getting to the Bm chord in the Miranda Lambert song, when we lose our breath during the Chris Stapleton cover (so many words in that bridge!), when Izzie flubs the lead in Midnight Rider? It’s from a place of joy. Watching my daughter light up fills me, imprints a core memory I can shore up for darker days.
RayGun is my spirit animal, my inspiration to show up with love. Excuse me if I miss the high note in Dreams.
