Culture shock like never before. Fancy lights drape from the ceiling; the floor is filled with slim women in heels and short dresses with slightly too much cleavage showing. The men are wearing nice pants and a tucked in button down shirt. Hair is neat, pulled back on the women, hardly present on the men. Next the mannerisms- well, they act pretty much as they dress.
I remove my boots in exchange for well-worn dance shoes. Wearing nice pants, not jeans- I’d been expecting something different, just not to this extent.
I approach a guy and hold out my hand. “Would you like to waltz?”
He looks confused and awkward. Like he’s thinking, you’re a woman, you aren’t supposed to ask me.
“Sure. My name is John.”
“Alex, nice to meet you.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you as well.” Except it seems that it is not a pleasure for him to meet me at all. He looks like he would much rather meet any one of the other women on the floor. In fact, he would probably rather be off the floor, in his car, all by himself, if that were a possibility.
I let him lead me. I watch feet to make sure that the steps are the same as those I know. One-two-three, one-two-three; the only difference is the posture.
The dance ends, and John returns me to the side of the room, thanks me, and retreats as quickly as is possible for someone possessing such a degree of courteousness. I wait to be asked for the next dance, and then the one after. Finally, when I am asked, I dance with guards on all sides. No flirting, no leaning too close, keep frame, posture, no varying step, definitely no leading. The evening is strained, performed, and awkward. I miss home. I miss my old dance. Where there is now waiting to be asked, there was me asking others. Where there is following, there was a mixture of leading and following- dance genders instead of genitalia based ones. The people here- how can they stand it? I’ve seen such people in movies before, but it had never really registered that they exist in real life. In my life. Where I am living now. I go home, dig out my cell phone, call my friends, and cry.
And there’s more crying again soon. The bitter reality of the nine to five job sinks in. It’s my first full time job out of college, and I hadn’t realized how much of my life it would take up. Not that I have much to do outside of work. The coworkers are nice enough in the office setting, but I would never consider socializing with them any more than necessary.
I feel left out, different, weird. Back home, we used to joke about being weird. With out colorful dreaded hair, walking down the street playing violin, and fire dancing in parks, I suppose these were the people we were comparing ourselves to. In the eyes of this crowd, the action of weird is the same but the connotation is flipped.
But as isolated as I am, I won’t let go
of my weird. I am the counterculture in a town that has only seen me
in movies.
It’s late November, heading into Thanksgiving, and I’m still at the Nightlight dance club a few times a week. It’s stiff and awkward, but I’m still there. Why? For the dance, not the people. As much as it hurts to stand out, it would hurt so much more, not to dance. The dance, I couldn’t function without.
The room is pretty empty. There are generally more women than men, but tonight there are two, three times as many. The last set is coming to an end, and I haven’t touched the dance floor nearly as much as I would have liked. I recognize many of the others now: the tall woman with the yellow dress, who is a good dancer, but looks awkward because of the height issue; the man whose posture says good dancer, but who can’t stay on beat; the lady in purple who is always the first to be asked to the floor; the man who sits out every other dance to regain his breath. The quiet, young-looking girl is there tonight. I’ve watched her dance, and she’s good, but she fades into the background. If you stand out too much, people don’t ask you to dance. If you stand out too little, people don’t ask you to dance. Well, not these people. These men. I walk over to her.
“Hi. I’ve seen you here before, but I don’t remember your name.”
“I’m Addie.”
“Alex, nice to meet you. Have you been coming here long?”
“Not really, only a month or two.”
“I was watching dance you just now; you’re a pretty good.”
“Thank you.”
The Salsa ends, and a Swing begins. We stand together in a silence that is not awkward, but not completely comfortable either.
“The last dance of the evening,” announces the DJ. “Please take partners for a Waltz.”
The few men ask women to dance, and the rest of the women, already half way to the coatroom, do not hesitate in completing the journey.
“Addie? Would you like to dance?”
“Umm…”
“Please? What have you got to lose?”
“Sure. I guess.”
Awkward before? No. Awkward now? Yes. I take Addie’s right hand in my left, and place my remaining hand on her back. One-two-three, one-two-three, switching to leader-mode takes a second. Addie resists at first, but her dance training gets the better of her emotions. She giggles nervously, like a child who’s done something her mom has specifically told her not to do.
What is she scared of? Does Addie even have an explanation? Or perhaps she is merely unaccustomed to acting out of the social norm. Maybe she feels like a rebel. Or a lesbian. I laugh. Maybe people here don’t dance with partners of the same gender because they’re scared of looking gay.
When the music stops, we walk quickly
to the coatroom, side by side, but not together. Addie gives me a quick
“good bye,” but does not linger. Shoes on and out the door in less then
fifteen seconds. The next week, Addie is not at the Nightlight.
I’m off work for the day, but am not hungry yet. I grab my poi from the shelf near the bed, put on my old high school wresting team hoodie, and leaving my apartment, wander off down the street. As I walk, I spin the poi, balls on chains, in intricate patterns. It’s dark already, and there aren’t many people around, so I don’t have to watch where I’m going. Yet without watching I do see. The eyes- I hadn’t noticed them so much before today. The eyes of the housewives looking out their windows; the eyes of the respectable businessmen returning from work; the eyes of the teens roaming the streets and the store clerks waiting for the clock to let them go home.
And the eyes, they are not kind. In the college town, I had assumed that people liked watching me wander down the street with poi. If I were a store clerk, I would welcome a new sight, a break from the monotony of staring at housewives and street teens.
But not these eyes. These eyes don’t
like a break, apparently. These eyes that are scared of difference, that
turn the fear into hatred to protect themselves. They hate me.
They hate me here.
It’s the end of December, and I’m back
to my old world for a week. (A week only. I signed a two-year contract with
this job, and for two years I need to stay.) But now I’m home to my family
where we all sit at one table together, eating home cooked meals. We sit in
front of a fire, lighting candles and singing songs. The street outside is
covered in snow, but here we’re warm and cozy, arms around each other,
sitting and singing. Everything is exactly where it should be. I’m exactly
where I should be.
“Hey, Alex!”
“Hey! It’s been a while!”
I’ve been in my old dance club for less then a minute, and already I’m covered with friends. Hugs all around.
“How are you?”
“How’s work?”
“Wow, I’ve missed you.”
“Do you still dance?”
“Oh my goodness, look who’s here!”
The hugs. I’d forgotten how much I needed the hugs. Someone grabs me, and pretty soon we’re on the floor, spinning quickly, aggressively, to the beat.
“You’re dancing different, Alex. Is something wrong?”
“No.” I drop my newly acquired posture, pulling slightly on my friend, letting our weights counterbalance each other like the trust games you used to play in middle school. “God, I’m happy to be home.”
When the dancing is over we go out for ice cream, ten or twelve of us, and walk through the park with our cones. One person pulls out poi, and then another. Swirls and flowers of fire pierce black night air. On the cool grass, a friend, Jamie, sitting on my lap, I am so aware of the world around me. The chill of the air rubs against my face, but the heat of my friends around me holds back any shivers. The fire, dashing through the air, feels so natural. It has no idea that elsewhere it would be scowled at, shunned. Nature is here. We are one.
This is my culture. It’s my worldview, which I took for granted until the move. Park, poi, people, this is what it’s like to belong. I need this. I need the belonging, the fitting in, the friendly faces, the intimacy.
On New Year’s, I resolve not to lose that again. I’ll do whatever it takes; I just need to belong. With my holiday gift money I buy the clothes, the shoes, and the manner of the new world.
I pull on a dress and comb back my short hair-dye-red hair. I look in the mirror and witness When I arrive at the Nightlight I stand quietly as the gentlemen ask ladies to dance. When I am asked, I act like the reserved girl that the man expects me to be.
“Hello, my name is Tony.”
“Alex.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. You move well- have you been dancing long?”
“Yes, since I was little.” I don’t say where. Be overly polite, look like what they think is pretty, stand quietly, don’t be too eager or too strong.
The mask, once a white slab of clay, is becoming increasingly intricately carved and painted. It is staying on for longer periods of time. At first a minute, then an hour. Now it is almost a permanent structure on my sweaty face. But the eyes, they don’t see me anymore. They see the mask.
Standing on the side of the floor, it’s been weeks since my return, yet I am still very conscious of the length of my dress. However, I refrain from tugging. I just stand there, matching their definition of pretty. And I never have to stand very long.
“May I have the next dance?”
“Sure.”
“You are a very pretty woman.”
Umm, thanks? I’d never gotten that here before.
As the Swing continues, his figures pull our bodies closer together. I see his eyes linger on my breasts, which are highlighted by my fitted clothing. I try to break the line of vision with eye contact, but he only glances at my face, smiling.
Funny, I didn’t used to mind this behavior. But I certainly do now. Because the person is looking at something that is not me. This man is attracted to an image that he helped to create.
When the dance ends, I retreat to the side of the floor as quickly as could possibly be considered polite.
“Don’t worry about that guy,” says a woman next to me. “He’s a creep.”
“I’ll say.” We smile, shaking our heads. Conversation comes so easily between her and the person I’m portraying.
But, I do worry. Two dances later, when a second partner complements my figure, I loose it. In all my months of dancing at the Nightlight, I had rarely been hit on. But this month, with my effort to impersonate the local ideal, came all sorts of looks and complements. They see the mask, and they like it.
I turn my back and head for the coatroom. Near the far left-hand corner I part jackets from the rack and move shoes aside to make an enclosed space. I sit there, back against the wall, chin on my knees. They don’t like me as myself, but I can’t stand myself as they like me. I reach into my backpack, and remove my wrestling team sweatshirt, pulling it on over my dress and my knees. I’ve got two options. I can be myself, or I can dance. One or the other. I’d never envisioned myself having to choose. The dancers were always the accepting people.
A man walks in the room- Robert, I think. Suddenly I am very conscientious of the fact that I’m curled up in the corner of the coatroom. He’s walking towards me.
“Oh! You startled me! I didn’t see you.”
“I’m sorry.” I wipe my face, but don’t make any move to get up.
“Wait a second, are you okay?” He squats down, looking into my eyes.
What the heck. “No, not really.” I can see the question in his mind. Is it more gentlemanly to leave her alone, or to try and help her? Sitting on the floor of the coatroom doesn’t seem very gentlemanly. But he sits.
“What’s wrong?”
“ I –I miss my old home. The people there. I’m having a hard time adjusting.”
That look on his face- he’s not sure what to say. Finally, “is there anything I can do to help you?”
You could tell me that I should be myself, no matter what. That these people are going to accept me. All that sappy middle school drama stuff.
Pause. I don’t answer the question; I just sit there, looking for the concern on his kindly face.
“Alex, would you like to dance?”
Would I like to dance, huh. I would love to dance. And thus the problem: that I love to dance.
Slowly, I stand up, and remove my sweatshirt. I correct my skirt, pat my hair, and plaster my face. “Yes, I would like to dance.”