We’re All In It
My Case Against Dance Circles
Credit: Photo 243
At any party, I always look forward to the part of the night where the pleasantries stop and the stank face begins. Where a particular song can bridge the gap between me and those I love, those I haven’t talked to in a while, and those I’ve never met before. I’m talking about the part of the night where everyone’s first language becomes dance.
Now here’s the thing: I don’t just dance. I sweat. I yell. I free myself of one shirt button every hour until the room is graced with my chest hairs.
Since I was a kid, my body has been moved by music towards a place of performance—whether I consciously realize I’m performing or not. And while I enjoy a few eyes on me, I’m less comfortable with every eye on me. That’s why I strongly oppose dance circles. You know, when one’s movement begins to catch the attention of a larger group until everyone has formed a loosely shaped border around that person and left them to fend for themselves until it’s time for the next person to willingly (or unwillingly) enter the circle and try their hand at impressing the crowd.
While I’m happy to oblige the newly formed audience for a few seconds, eventually I turn to my closest comrades on the dance floor in a way to say, ‘I’m not here to perform. I’m here to dance with you.’
The best concerts I’ve been to are the shows where the artists see the act of performing as mutual, as something they do with the group in attendance, not merely for them. Over Memorial Day weekend, Elizabeth and I traveled two hours to Cincinnati to see Haim in concert. We were coming fresh off seeing a few Instagram posts where Haim performed for a sold-out crowd at Madison Square Garden and vowed to ourselves that we’d do everything in our power to see them live if they ever came anywhere in relatively close driving distance from our home of Columbus, Ohio.
Due to a COVID outbreak on their tour, Haim ended up postponing their Cincinnati show, opening up the door for Elizabeth and I to go. Although we wrestled with how spontaneous we were willing to be, the show was now scheduled for a Sunday night with us both having Monday off. A no-brainer, we decided to make the trip and were both extremely happy we did.
From the moment Haim opened the show with their Women in Music Pt. III bonus track, “Now I’m In It,” it became clear this wasn’t a show where they expected us to be spectators. They were there to sing and dance with us. In other words, we were all in it. From the balcony front row, I yelled every word to “I Want You Back” and danced my way through “3 AM.” We sang along with Danielle to usher in “Gasoline” and accented the chorus of “The Wire” by all raising our arms in unison when the beat instructed us to.
It felt like we were all adopted into the Haim family for the night. But that’s what singing and dancing with your people does. It brings us closer, letting what excites us shine a light towards those who share that same excitement.
When the DJ at Elizabeth and I’s wedding let Kanye West’s remix of Chief Keef’s “Don’t Like” roar through the speakers during our reception, those of us who knew the song immediately met in a cloud of sweat and flailing arms and screamed every word. It didn’t matter who else was in the room or what they thought about the language in the song. We had each other. And even if this holy moment didn’t come packaged in politeness, we all knew it was our communion table—where we could all come, take and eat.
In recent years, I’ve learned new ways to engage with the language evangelical Christianity gave me. I’ve gotten the question a few times if I still consider myself a Christian—and while I don’t necessarily identify with the label anymore, I still acknowledge the ways in which Christianity has shaped me and probably always will.
Christianity is my native tongue—and although I’ve learned new languages over the years, it would be insincere for me not to acknowledge the ways Christianity has shaped me. And to make this acknowledgment is to also recognize the toxic instructions I’ve been handed through the lens of Christianity and how people on the margins have had their oppression perpetuated by the words and actions of Christian institutions.
While I don’t necessarily believe evangelical Christianity and its churches can be “reformed” in a way that liberates oppressed peoples and enables a world where we all have everything we need, there is language within Christianity that’s been helpful for me in understanding what it looks like for us to be freed from imperialist, white-supremacist capitalist patriarchy—such as a Christian understanding of “home.” This idea that we are loved and accepted as we are and can always return to this reality, whether it’s found in a place or people. And when we come home, we’re met with open arms and celebration.
This past weekend, I was reminded that one of my cousins and I used to try and destroy each other when we were growing up—attempting our best impersonations of our favorite WWE moves on one another in my grandma’s basement—to the point where we actually wanted to destroy each other. Two boys understanding how to relate with one another through domination. But as we celebrated my little brother’s high school graduation this past weekend, we found ourselves with our arms around each other, swaying side-to-side to “Swag Surfin’,” a song that requires togetherness.
I guess that’s what happens when you come home—you live with the good, the bad, and the uncomfortable, finding and holding space to move as one. Not a performance for one another, but dancing with each other. Because we can only watch each other for so long until we all have to jump in the middle and keep us alive.
