Beyond invisible Boundaries

I learned to dance when I was fifteen. 

In an attempt to avoid the stresses and heartache of high school, my friends and I accepted an invitation to a local hip-hop workshop. They were excited, enthusiastic and I tried my best to mirror their energy. But this was a façade and I was cowering with fear. Unlike them, I had neither the experience nor the swag to carry out an urban routine. In fact, I was terrified of crowds and dreaded being the center of attention.

So when the day of the workshop came, I covered my long and lanky limbs with oversized sweatpants and an extra large sweatshirt. It was a warm autumn morning in a crowded, unconditioned room and my outfit defied all logic. Yet, I refused to remove an ounce of clothing. I was comfortable in my back left corner and away from most of the dancers. Everyone's eyes were so intently focused on the choreographer that no one even noticed me butchering the routine. When he would perform a move, the class would respond, and then I would respond with a twenty second delay. To my own demies, the class was fast paced and the clock was unmoving.

As I counted down the minutes, I grew more eager to leave. My excitement, however, was shattered when the choreographer announced it was time to audition for Nerdz Dance Crew. Since when was this a tryout? Is everyone required to perform? What have I gotten myself into? These questions echoed in my head and before I knew it, I was being sectioned off into a group. With unease, I joined Group Three, a band of beginning dancers who all found comfort in the back left corner. Just my luck! 

When we were given the chance to go over the routine, the members of Group Three all agreed to not audition. So, as the choreographer invited our group to the stage, no one responded. His unanswered calls prompted the other groups to chant, “Group three! Group three! Group three!” I looked over my shoulder and noticed that even my friends had jumped on that bandwagon. Traitors.

Mortified, I searched the crowd for the infamous Group Three. Our eyes acknowledged our defeat and we retreated to the dance floor. Interestingly enough, we all gravitated toward the back of the room leaving an awkward gap between us and the choreographer.  So when the music dropped, there was no one to hide behind. I became a performer (and a really rotten one, at best).

My movements were uncoordinated and my frame? Contorted. But the audience still responded; they still clapped, hollered, and cheered. And at this crossroads between hardship and humiliation, I learned to do the same. I learned to take things easy and even laugh at myself. I learned to shed my excessively baggy sweats and conquer center stage—to not blend in with the crowd, but to capture its attention. Although I never learned how to dance, I learned to dance.