Don’t Walk, Waltz!
Dancing with Queer Joy and Liberation
Read and/or listen along.
Dancing has always felt a bit uncomfortable and awkward. I joke that this is because of my lack of rhythm or of having two left feet. But it’s deeper than that.
My struggle with dance is held in my struggle with my body. My body holds memories of pain and trauma. My body bears scars and wounds from years of serving as a protective shield for my spirit.
My body is shy. And timid. And cautious. My body is often late to the party because it has to survey the scene before arriving.
My body is slow to immerse itself in the water, but once it’s in, never wants to leave. My body is cautious with entering the dance floor, but once committed, is all in.
My dancing is much like my singing, usually a solitary act. The handful of times I’ve sang and danced in the presence of others, it’s been in queer spaces. A gay bar. A lesbian wedding. A Pink concert. Drag queen bingo. A pride parade. A protest march.
Back in June 2021, which seems like a lifetime ago, I was living on the Gulf coast of Florida. Our collective and individual lives still very much driven by the pandemic. Florida, like other states, was pushing a strong anti-LGBTQIA+ political agenda. “Don’t Say Gay” was a slogan that would soon become a law that restricted—among other things—discussion about sexual orientation and gender identity in classrooms.
When I was invited to attend an event where hundreds of people would walk a 375-foot-long rainbow flag over the Ringling Bridge in Sarasota, I was initially cautious. Would there be masks? Was it safe? A few voices warned me to stay home. Others encouraged me to go.
In the end, I decided to participate. And it was one of those moments, you know, the kind that while brief have an eternal impact. When I arrived, the crowd was larger than I imagined, making it hard to find my friends. But within minutes of sitting down in the grass along the bay, it felt like everyone around me was a friend, even the dolphins putting on a show for us.
When it came time to get in line and find our place on the rainbow flag, I caught up with some faces I’d been searching for. Together with old friends and new, walking boldly and bravely across a bridge holding gently and firmly to pride; to the belief that LGBTQIA+ lives and loves are beautiful and wonderful; to the truth that we are worthy and deserving of joy, pleasure, safety, dignity, and rights.
That small piece of a much larger fabric felt like a warm scarf, a soft cloth upon my skin. I was moving rhythmically and poetically. I wasn’t simply walking, I was dancing. Unbothered by who was watching. Unconcerned about being judged or scored. It was a public act of witness. Yet it was a personal experience of healing, claiming a power I’d long resisted, releasing years of burden from my body.
It wasn’t my first Pride event or protest. But it was the first time I participated in one so completely. The first time I experienced the hallmark of queer community; JOY. I experienced the joy. Joy that makes space for all the emotions we bring. Joy that takes on flesh. Joy that is manifested through movement. Joy that liberates us from all the reasons we refused to dance. Joy that mends trauma and softens shame.
Joy that can tango with sorrow and not lose a step. Joy that can twirl with fear and not skip a beat. Joy that struts when trucks drive by decorated in hate. Joy that salsas when scoffers shout slurs. Joy that can slow down to make sure no one is left behind and still maintain the frame.
When I decided that as part of celebrating Pride Month, Wednesdays at the Well this June would include stories of queer joy and liberation, I never thought life would be all a fun and roses, but I also didn’t anticipate the extreme level of grief and sorrow our world is currently facing. The events of the last week alone are enough to make you question everything.
I went on a walk to get away from the constant news cycle reporting of bombs, missiles, military parades, protests, assassinations, ICE raids, and deadly flooding. An hour in, I sat down on a bench near the river overcome with tears. Frustrated. Exhausted. Worried. Sad. Angry. Wondering, how does this end? How do we bring forth the world we ache for? How do I—why do I—keep writing about joy of any kind for readers on the internet?
And in the silence, something invited me to move toward the river. I took off my shoes and socks and put my feet in the water. The wind just strong enough to make its presence known. As small waves washed over me, I began to sway. And then dance. Moving my feet, toes, legs, arms, hands, fingers, and head to the rhythm of joy, the queer kind of joy I was taught about in community. That I learned to embody under a rainbow flag waltzing across a long bridge with friends working for collective liberation.
Refreshed and renewed, still uncertain of what to write this week, I noticed a big red heart painted on the bench, where my shoes and socks still sat. Hearts are made for love. And hearts make space for joy, the kind of joy that keeps on dancing even when the sounds of violence and destruction are amplified, when religion labels our dancing sinful, when government tells us our movement is illegal or inconsequential.
I write today, turning up the volume on joy. I create because joy is not gone. I continue turning words into water because joy only fades if we allow it. For now, we must pay closer attention to it. Care for it more intentionally, tenderly, and fiercely. Every day we are called to recommit to joy, to liberation, and to dancing.
How are you making space for love and joy in these most difficult days? What keeps you going? When is the last time you put your feet in the water? When is the next time you will dance?
With rhythm and with wonder,
Rebecca & 10 Camels
There is one more Wednesday in June. Join us again next week for a final Pride reflection on Queer Joy and Liberation. And to close out the month, we’ll have a Friday Field Trip on June 27th. Friday Field Trips are an extra serving of words and water for paid subscribers to Wednesdays at the Well. Click below to become a paid subscriber or upgrade your subscription today for as little as $5/month.
Are you signed up for the 10 Camels email newsletter? Don’t worry, it’s not spam. But simply a once (or twice) a month note with updates, poems, and other creative inspiration. We have something really cool in the works this summer and the newsletter is where we will spill all the details first. Here’s the sign up list.
Joy is so incredibly important! I’m recovering from a rough fall the other week, so joy is taking simple forms like gluten free mozzarella sticks with marinara sauce, a nap in the middle of the day while watching TV, or a midnight game of Hello Kitty.
Love it. Keep dancing!