To Dancing

My body was never something I was very comfortable in. Growing up, I was told to sit still, to be the obedient little girl that I was. Too much movement or madness was met with a scolding from Father, Mother, or my great aunt. After some time, I got used to keeping my arms at my sides, my hands in the comfort of each other’s embrace on my lap. I learned that it was better to appear small than to attract unwanted attention. And I was good at it — appearing small, sitting as still as a statue as pigeons rested on my shoulders. I learned to tune out their cooing, to wipe the shit they’d drop before flying away. No matter how much I scrubbed with soap and water, the stains stayed. Though I never minded them too much anyway.

I knew what dancing was, of course, but I had never done it. I have no memories of moving my head to the rhythm, of tapping my foot to the beat. The closest I ever got to it was when we had the game Dance Dance Revolution, but even that was less dancing and more placing my feet on the correct arrows at the correct time. Dance Dance Revolution did not prepare me for the awkwardness of middle school dances or the anxiety in my sweaty palms when I stepped foot on the dance floor. I never did dance, though, only used the dance floor as a means of crossing the room to reach the table with snacks and refreshments. Once retrieved, I would cross the dance floor once more to retreat back to the comfort of a corner, munching on chips and sipping Coca-Cola as I watched other kids flail their arms and swing their hips. Their movements looked so natural, flowing hand in hand with the smiles on their faces. I couldn’t wrap my head around the amount of fun everyone seemed to be having.

With time and age, dancing became something I couldn’t avoid for much longer. I found myself at college frat parties with red solo cups in hand that later evolved into glasses half full of ice and a lemon slice at bars and clubs once I turned twenty-one. My friends and I would form a circle as we sang to the stereo, swung our hips, and shouted to each other in order to be heard above the deafening speakers. The arms that once rested at my sides were now bent at ninety degree angles, my hands closed into loose fists as I smiled alongside my friends. I watched how they moved their limbs, shifting their weight from one foot to the other. I was a monkey, copying their movements, trying to act like I knew what I was doing, like I belonged. Even though I eventually got the hang of it — my mouth open and turned upward as my teeth shined in the dim light — I didn’t enjoy the grimy boys dancing behind me, putting their hands on my hips because, in their eyes, there was no room for courtesies or consent on the dance floor. The only thing on their minds was to have some fun.

In the comfort of our own apartments, my friends and I would throw our hands in the air, do the chicken dance, and kick our legs to vaguely resemble the can-can. It didn’t matter how dumb we looked or how silly we felt because none of us cared. There was friendship in the air, creating a safe and judgement-free space where we could joke with each other, shed aching tears, and cry from laughing too hard. I have videos of my friends dancing, and even years later, when I watch them back, a smile forms on my face and a feeling of happy nostalgia washes over me. These are the people who have helped me become comfortable in my body simply by being comfortable in theirs.

A couple summers ago, my cousin got married. At the reception, round tables and chairs draped in red cloth sat near the walls, leaving an open space in the middle of the room as a dance floor. With the aid of two glasses of red wine in my veins and the comfort of family, I left my seat to join my aunties and uncles on the dance floor. We smiled as our bodies moved to the music, feeling joy as the celebrations began. But, in the midst of all the motion and happy thoughts in my mind, I felt something was missing. I turned towards the table I was sitting at moments before and made eye contact with Mother. She was sitting, watching, smiling. I wanted her to join us so I made my way back to the table and tried to drag her out on the dance floor. She refused and left me no choice. I spun my invisible lasso above my head and, with impeccable aim, the lasso landed on my target and I began pulling on the rope. Tears escaped Mother’s eyes from uncontrollable laughter. She had no choice but to stand up from her seat and let the rope pull her onto the dance floor. I watched as Mother’s hands closed into loose fists, as her arms bent at the elbows at ninety degree angles. She was smiling, teeth shining under the flashing lights. Mother, her siblings, and I formed a circle. We joined hands as we jumped up and down, off rhythm to the song playing from the speakers but in tune to the melody in my chest. I had never felt more whole.

There are days when I sit still, arms at my sides as I focus on my breath. But there are also days when I want to move to the melody echoing in my mind, to put both hands in the air and swing my hips because I don’t care. I don’t care if I look dumb or feel silly. I don’t care if someone is watching or judging because I am too engrossed in the positive energy leaking from my limbs, too entranced by the laughter leaving my lungs, too enchanted by the magic I feel in every movement. Dancing has the power to put a smile on anyone’s face. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that dancing can put a smile on my face, too.