Dancing for My Life.

When this video popped up on Instagram (ok, maybe it was TikTok, but I’m not supposed to have a TikTok account according to my intellectual friends), I watched it three times. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Then I started to weep, and I didn’t know why. Also, it’s a lie—I watched it ten times. I felt total joy watching her, and I didn’t want it to end.

When the fabulous Sarah, about whom I’m not allowed to write, was in preschool, her first boyfriend was a person of color. My mother, when Sarah was telling her about him, asked her what he looked like.

“Well, he’s this tall. He has curly brown hair, he has brown eyes, and he has a big smile.”

She was three or four.

I wondered then, all those years ago, at what point his color would be a distinguishing feature to her. When would he being black be an adjective for who he was?

I look at this girl. She is from the Middle East, actually, which makes it even more powerful that the boys around her can only stare or ignore. She is so much ‘bigger’ than they are. She is free. She is dancing, not for the camera, but for herself. She loves the music. She loves the way she is moving. Her smile? It lights up the room. She will go, I am sure, until the music stops. Nothing makes her self-conscious, yet.

When will she start to be behind the boys rather than center stage?

When will she worry about her hair? Or her clothes?

When will she lose the freedom to dance as if no one is watching?

When did I?

I watch this every morning now, and I dance with her. I remind myself that I get to be me, just the way I am, and I get to like much of me, regret some of me, and apologize for the occasional me that doesn’t live up to the standards I hope to maintain.

And I can dance in my house, in the morning, with my new friend, without regard for my aging joints, larger body, and Barry Manilow taste in music.