Dance Trends and Cultural Appropriation on TikTok

Let’s talk about the thing that makes TikTok so addictively scrollable—dance trends that sweep the world in seconds. If you open the app on any given day, you’ll see millions of users, from teenagers in Atlanta to schoolteachers in Oslo, busting out the same choreography to the same 15 seconds of music. TikTok’s dance challenges promise a sense of belonging, instant virality, and even the possibility of fame.

One reason so many people love TikTok dance trends is that they’re accessible to anyone with a phone. Choreography is broken down into short, repeatable moves. Hashtags like #dancechallenge have racked up billions of views, making it easy for users to join in and riff on the latest trending routines. During the so-called “roller skating renaissance” of 2021, for example, thousands posted themselves doing spins and splits on wheels, often paired with trending songs—showing how these challenges can blend dance, fashion, nostalgia, and athleticism into a single 30-second video.

The viral nature of TikTok’s algorithm means that a dance created by a single user in Chicago or Dallas can be copied, remixed, and reposted by people in over 100 countries within days. This creates a sense of global community, where anyone can participate—no matter their background or skill level. During the pandemic, creators cited the app’s dance trends as a lifeline, a way to stay active and social when bars and clubs were closed.

But behind this glittery surface, there’s a controversy that’s been simmering for years. Many of the most popular TikTok dances have origins rooted in specific Black American cultural traditions—especially hip hop, street, and club dance styles—that often go unrecognized when trends go viral. What starts as a celebration of creative expression can quickly turn into a story about cultural appropriation, credit, and compensation.

The tension first became obvious as Black creators saw their choreography rocketing into the mainstream without acknowledgment or reward. According to reporting from The Face, these creators have voiced concerns about seeing their dances performed by more prominent or non-Black influencers, who then reap the benefits—brand deals, interviews, and millions of new followers—while the original choreographers are pushed into the background. The mechanism is simple: TikTok’s “For You Page” does not prioritize the original creator’s video, but whichever version gains the most traction, often amplifying those with bigger followings or more conventionally marketable appearances.

One specific example involves the “Renegade” dance, which became one of TikTok’s most famous routines. While the grounding sources here don’t name it directly, they do explain the pattern: a creator invents a new dance, uploads it, it’s quickly picked up by users with larger platforms, and within a week, the originator’s name and face are lost in the shuffle. In many cases, the person who popularizes the dance in mainstream media is not the same person who created it.

This issue isn’t limited to one dance: it’s a recurring pattern. As described in The Face, the cycle of Black artistic innovation being repackaged and monetized by others dates back decades, but TikTok’s scale and speed have given it new urgency. In just the first year of the pandemic, TikTok’s user base surged past 1 billion, making it one of the fastest-growing social platforms in history. The sheer number of videos and participants accelerates the cycle of viral borrowing.

The lack of recognition isn’t just a matter of social capital—it’s also about money and opportunity. Influencers who perform these dances at the right moment can land partnerships with major brands, be invited to appear on national television, or gain tens of millions of followers, which can translate to earnings in the six- or even seven-figure range. Meanwhile, the original choreographers may not see a single dollar, even as their work fuels a global trend. In the words of The Face, “Black art is Black money,” but too often, the money part is left out for those who actually created the dance.

Another layer to this problem is the way TikTok’s design amplifies the erasure. The app’s duet and stitching features encourage users to riff on each other’s content, but these iterations usually reference the most viral or visible version, not the source. Hashtags and captions sometimes credit the wrong creator, or no one at all. Once a dance has been replicated by thousands, it becomes detached from its origins—effectively severing the connection between the art and the artist.

The effects of this pattern are felt by Black creators, who experience a mix of frustration, anger, and resignation. Some have tried to push back by organizing boycotts of certain dance trends, refusing to upload new choreography until proper credit is given. In 2021, a group of creators staged a coordinated pause on making new dances for a period of time to highlight the role Black innovation plays in fueling viral culture. These moves were widely covered in digital media and served to put pressure on both TikTok and other influencers to change their behavior.

Is the criticism fair? According to The Face, many see it as overdue. The pattern of Black art being separated from Black artists is well documented, stretching back to the early days of mass media—when jazz, rock, and hip hop styles were mainstreamed without acknowledgment or compensation for the original innovators. On TikTok, critics argue, the algorithm and influencer economy only speed up this process and widen the gap.

At the same time, some users push back against the charge of appropriation, arguing that dance has always been a shared, evolving language. They point out that many viral routines borrow from multiple sources, and that it can be hard to pinpoint a single creator once a trend explodes. Others say that TikTok’s remix culture is about participation and community, not theft, and that most users simply want to join in and have fun.

That debate is still ongoing within the TikTok community. Some call for the platform to implement better tools for attribution—like watermarking the original creator’s username on derivative videos, or building in automatic credit in the app’s interface. Others push for financial compensation, urging brands and TikTok itself to invest in the artists whose ideas drive the platform’s growth. There are also calls for education, teaching users to look for and acknowledge the origins of the dances they perform.

The discussion has only intensified as more people recognize how much is at stake—not just in terms of credit or money, but in who gets to shape culture and whose stories are told. This raises a key question: if TikTok’s dance trends are built on a foundation of remix and sharing, how can the app and its users ensure that innovation doesn’t come at the cost of invisibility for those who started it? And as new trends emerge every week, what would it take for the next viral dance to carry its originator’s name all the way to the top?