Dignity and Pride (DAP)

Gestures, often dismissed as casual or superficial, can carry profound historical and emotional weight. The dap—a handshake or series of choreographed hand gestures frequently seen in Black communities, sports arenas, and even the White House—is one such symbol. Popularized by athletes, entertainers, and everyday people, its widespread use today belies a powerful origin rooted in resistance, unity, and survival. LaMont Hamilton’s article "Five on the Black Hand Side: Origins and Evolutions of the Dap," published in Folk Life magazine, explores how this seemingly simple greeting emerged as a coded language of solidarity among African American soldiers during the Vietnam War and later evolved into a broader cultural expression of Black dignity and pride.

In the racially charged atmosphere of the 1960s and 70s, the dap became a critical means of communication and affirmation among young Black soldiers. At the time, reports surfaced that African American troops were being harmed—and even killed—by white counterparts during combat. In response, the dap was born not as a trend but as a necessity: a ritualized gesture that conveyed trust, mutual recognition, and unspoken protection. “I see you, you see me,” it said, not with words, but with movement—body language that affirmed humanity in an environment designed to erase it.

Hamilton traces the origins of the dap to Black G.I.s stationed in the Pacific, whose creation of the gesture coincided with the rise of the Black Power movement. The military had banned the raised fist salute—deeming it too politically charged—so the dap emerged as an alternative form of resistance. But it was more than resistance; it was affirmation. An acronym for “Dignity and Pride,” the dap represented a pact of brotherhood, a ritual bond forged in danger, where the gesture itself became a lifeline.

Despite military efforts to suppress it, the dap endured. It communicated everything from emotional support to encoded information. Eventually, the military came to recognize its psychological utility, employing it in “dap therapy” to build trust among Black soldiers suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. What began as a subversive ritual evolved into a healing tool, further solidifying its cultural weight.

Hamilton’s research extends beyond military history. Through photography and interviews with Black Vietnam veterans, he documents how the dap spread across generations and geographies—morphing, adapting, and embedding itself into the fabric of Black identity. From prison yards to barbershops, from playgrounds to political campaigns, the dap is a living language, rooted in struggle but flowering in everyday acts of acknowledgment.

The deeper cultural context of the dap also resonates with voices of resistance beyond the battlefield. In a 1967 interview, Muhammad Ali famously refused military induction, declaring,

“My conscience won’t let me go shoot my brother… they never called me n*gger, they never lynched me.”

Ali’s refusal to fight in Vietnam paralleled the sentiment behind the dap: a refusal to betray one’s own in service of a nation that withheld justice and dignity at home.

As a Black man who raised a son and daughter as a single father, I internalized this legacy of self-determination and cultural protection. I never imposed religion or political ideology on my children. I taught them to think critically, to seek their own truth. But there were two career paths I would not support: the military and the police force. Not out of disdain for service, but out of a deep awareness of how these institutions have historically failed to honor the humanity of Black lives. The dap, for me, is not just a handshake. It is a reminder of that history—a quiet rebellion, a bond of protection, and a call to awareness.

In today’s world, where the dap has become a casual greeting between presidents and pop stars, it is easy to forget its revolutionary roots. But gestures are never just gestures. When we look closely, we see in the dap a living memory of survival, brotherhood, and the enduring dignity of a people who have always found ways to say: I see you. You matter. We stand together.