Let’s talk about the curious case of Rachael Gunn, the Australian B-girl who became the most talked-about breaker in the world—not for her skill, but for her kangaroo hops and sprinkler moves. It’s a story that feels both absurd and oddly reflective of our current cultural moment, where internet fame can be built on a single viral performance, regardless of merit. Personally, I think this says more about the chaos of modern celebrity than it does about breaking itself. But let’s unpack this, because there’s a lot more going on here than just a woman in a tutu doing cartwheels on a mat.
Breaking, as an art form, was born in the South Bronx as a raw, rebellious expression of Black and Brown youth. It’s a culture steeped in history, technique, and community. Yet, when the International Olympic Committee decided to bring breaking into the Games, they didn’t exactly choose the most obvious ambassadors. Instead, they handed the spotlight to a 41-year-old academic from Australia who had no prior competitive experience in the sport. What makes this particularly fascinating is how the narrative around her performance—so much of it centered on her 'dorky' persona and her lack of technical prowess—sidestepped the deeper conversation about what it means to bring an underground art form into the sterile, elite world of the Olympics.
Here’s the thing: Gunn wasn’t bad at breaking. She was just... not good enough. Her sets in Paris were filled with gimmicks—kangaroos, sprinklers, even a nod to swimming—because she realized she couldn’t compete with the technical mastery of the other B-girls. This raises a deeper question: If breaking is about originality, creativity, and character, why did the judges fail to see any of that in her performance? The documentary Untold Raygun spends more time on Gunn’s personal journey—her love story with her husband, her academic background—than it does on the cultural implications of her becoming the face of a sport that was never meant to be a spectacle for the masses. From my perspective, this is a missed opportunity to interrogate how the Olympics commodify art forms, reducing them to entertainment rather than preserving their roots.
What many people don’t realize is that breaking has a long-standing ethos called ‘No easy props.’ It’s a principle that emphasizes hard work, respect, and the idea that you don’t get accolades without earning them. Tinylocks, one of Gunn’s contemporaries, pointed out that this ethos was sorely lacking in Gunn’s approach. Her performance wasn’t just unimpressive—it felt like a desperate attempt to stand out in a crowd that didn’t care about her. A detail that I find especially interesting is how the public reaction to her performance was so different from that of other athletes who became memes. Take Stephen Nedoroscik, the pommel horse specialist who became a viral sensation for his glasses-removing routine. He was a world champion, and his meme status didn’t overshadow his actual skill. Gunn, on the other hand, was treated like a sideshow, which speaks volumes about how society still views women in male-dominated spaces. If you take a step back and think about it, this isn’t just about breaking—it’s about the double standards that women face in sports, art, and public life.
And yet, here’s the twist: Gunn’s story might end up being a blessing in disguise. Breaking’s inclusion in the Olympics was always a gamble. It’s a sport that thrives on authenticity, not medals. By becoming the most famous breaker in the world, Gunn has inadvertently put the spotlight on the contradictions of the Olympic system. The fact that she didn’t win a single vote in Paris but still became a global icon suggests that the Games are less about excellence and more about marketability. This raises a provocative idea: What if breaking’s future in the Olympics depends not on its technical rigor, but on its ability to capture the imagination of the masses, even if that means sacrificing its integrity?
In my opinion, the real tragedy here isn’t Gunn’s performance—it’s the way the documentary chose to frame her story. By focusing on her personal journey and downplaying the cultural context, it lets the audience off the hook from questioning whether breaking was ever meant to be part of the Olympics in the first place. The truth is, breaking doesn’t need a platform like the Olympics to thrive. It needs to remain in the streets, in the cyphers, where it was born. As for Gunn? She’s a reminder that sometimes, the most unexpected people can become the most visible, but visibility doesn’t always equate to legacy. The next time breaking makes it to the Olympics, I hope it’s not because of a kangaroo hop, but because the world finally understands what it’s really about.
