10:11 AM EDT on Monday, August 16, 2004

BY CATHLEEN F. CROWLEY
Journal Staff Writer

A police officer strolls past the Fleet Skating Center, where two dozen black, Hispanic and Asian teenagers have gathered under an alcove next to the snack bar.

The patrolman waves hello to 18-year-old Kevin Kehyei. Kehyei returns the wave, and quickly refocuses on his friends. Here, Kehyei is known as Pantha. Music pumps out of his small boom box, and he begins to dance.

Pantha's black T-shirt droops from his broad shoulders to his knees. His oversized jeans bunch at his ankles. His faded gray sneakers are as worn on top as they are on the bottom.

He moves his hips as if they are attached to strings from his wrists; he flicks his hand, and his hips follow.

Journal photo / Kris Craig Chris Styels Saurez, known as Mumu, performs some "groundwork" near the Fleet Skating Center.

Pantha is a break dancer.

Inside this open-air alcove, he and a cousin, Jeremy "Suave" Richardson, have created a haven for teenagers who love to dance. Skin color and gender don't matter. If you like to move to music, you are welcome here.

They practice at the skating rink every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, arriving at 4 p.m. Often, they dance past 10 p.m., or until the last bus home. They call themselves Street Noise.

"All these kids who come here stay out of trouble by doing this. It's fun," says Suave, 18. His baby face exudes charisma. He is lithe and muscular.

"This is one of the best places to hang out downtown," he says. "We express ourselves down here."

The wooden roof protects the dancers from the elements, and the wide railing surrounding the alcove makes a perfect perch for the teenagers to sit and rest.

Rubber tiles cover the floor, so ice skaters can walk to the snack bar in the winter. For the dancers, the rubber dampens the violent impact as they writhe on the ground to the rhythm of the music.

Buses entering Kennedy Plaza squeal in the background. Pantha tries to keep the radio volume low, or else the people waiting for buses will complain and Sgt. Ryan will tell them to quiet down.

"They are no problem," said Providence police Sgt. John Ryan, who is stationed at the plaza almost every day. "They are not doing anything wrong. It gives them something to do -- and some of them are pretty talented, too."

CHRIS Styels Suarez, 18, and his brother, José Pena, 15, ride the bus from Woonsocket to dance at the skating rink.

"Break dancing keeps me away from trouble. It's my life," said Suarez, whose nickname is Mumu.

"The moves, the feeling you get, you fall in love with it," he said. "Once you try it, you can't stop. You want to take it to the limit. It's like falling in love with a girl for the first time."

Mumu's bushy hair is pulled into a ponytail and tucked into a wool cap. He wears a muscle shirt and baggy jeans. His hair breaks loose when he spins on his head. He is a technician on the dance floor, his dance moves precise and polished.

He shares the rubber mat with five others who are practicing power moves -- poses they hold until they lose their balance, or until their muscles give out.

With only his right elbow on the ground, Mumu bends one leg in front of him and places his foot on his right hand. His other leg shoots to the side and his free hand points to the sky. He balances for a few seconds before he crumples to the ground.

Break dancing comes in many different forms. There's "popping and locking," in which a dancer moves his body in a fluid wave or snaps his joints like a robot. When you stand up and move your feet to the music, that's called "up rock." Dancers often move from up rock to the spider-like "groundwork," dancing and spinning on the floor.

Mumu has broken his wrist and his pinkie. He's cut open his lips and nose, and his knee occasionally pops out of place. Despite frequent injuries to his elbows, shoulders, neck and lower back, he still dances.

"We don't stop practicing. It doesn't matter," he said. "It could be burning fire and lava outside, and we'd be dancing on it. I love it."

SUAVE and Mumu dream of becoming professional dancers or rappers.

Suave is a junior at the MET School in Providence. He has already earned spots as a background dancer in two music videos by hip-hop artists Smoke Bulga and Missy Elliott. He dances with a group from AS220, called The Road Show, and has appeared in a local antismoking advertisement.

Mumu, a senior at Woonsocket High School, danced in a scene of the 2004 break-dancing movie You Got Served. When he's not dancing, he's boxing.

Pantha wants to be a lawyer. His says his backup career is dance choreography. He dropped out of high school last year, but plans to earn his degree through an alternative program. This summer, he has taught dance at a Moses Brown School summer camp.

ONE OF THE teenage boys runs up a brick column, flips backward, and lands easily on his feet.

The dancers egg each other to do riskier flips. The noise attracts a group of RIPTA riders who just got off a bus. Spectators rev up the energy of the teen. The dancers circle around and swap floor time. Each one tries to top the last one.

A few more teens slide off the rail and join in.

One 15-year-boy tries an aerial flair, rotating his legs in a circle inches from the ground with only his hands as support. His feet skid across the floor. Pantha lies down, pretending to sleep, unimpressed.

Journal photo / Kris Craig Taking a break from their dancing at the Fleet Skating Center last week are, from left, O'Lick Maknoxa, Bryant Saysithideth, Kevin "Pantha" Kehyei, and Sokum "Shorty" Khoun.

Pantha's face is a constantly changing canvas. His big, expressive eyes and wide mouth transform from mock anger to unadulterated joy in an instant. He never rests.

He takes the floor, lowers himself to a crouch and works over the ground on his hands and feet. Twisting and turning, Pantha's legs move in seemingly impossible directions to the beat of the music. He is smooth and graceful. He pokes his rear end toward the next dancer, as if to say, "Top that!"

The dancers love a crowd. They seek out spectators every chance they get. They dance at WaterFire Providence and at city festivals. Sometimes they are paid for their performances or accept cash that's thrown at them -- occasionally, as much as $20 for one move.

There's nothing like an audience.

ONE NIGHT, after practicing for hours at the skating rink, they pick up their gear and walk over to the Rhode Island School of Design for a multicultural festival.

The dance floor is a large piece of cardboard, on top of cement. The break dancers circle up. One at a time, they show off their moves.

Their set lasts about 25 minutes. It ends when they are exhausted and out of moves. The crowd claps and a few students thank the teenagers. As the spectators disperse, some of the younger break dancers, who had stood on the sidelines, move onto the cardboard and dance.

Pantha can't resist. He's back in the middle, popping and locking. Suave returns from bathroom with a fresh shirt on and his sweat toweled off. He jumps back in the circle.

Wherever there's music and a crowd, these guys just can't stop dancing.