Article by Liza McDougall Art by Liz White
I was nervous to go alone. I was at a point in my life where I was always confident when dancing with friends, but something about entering a dance hall an hour away from my house in a small island town completely alone was petrifying to me, even though it was my favorite local band. I awkwardly sat in the car for a few minutes longer, checking my phone (nothing there), looking out the window, (yup, definitely in the parking lot) and twiddling my thumbs. Finally, I grabbed my stuff and headed up the hill. Slowly. What was wrong with me?
A few years earlier, I wouldn’t have even considered dancing to be something that I could do. I had a brief stint in jazz lessons as a kid and absolutely hated it. When I started high school, I still felt like a stranger in my own body: not comfortable in who I was. When my new classmate suggested that we join a band after school — not just any band, but a steel drum band — I thought she was crazy. I told her straight up that I had no clue what a steel drum was. She looked at me funny. Apparently everyone in high school plays the steel drums. Like a sheep, I thought I would follow the herd and try it. Playing the steel drums changed my relationship with music forever.
I walked into the dance hall, feeling a sneaking sense of imposter syndrome. I went up to the ticket window and tried to barter my way into a cheaper ticket, but you had to still be in high school to get the student discount and I had just graduated. Bummer. I nervously skimmed the room, but there was no one in the crowd that I outright recognized. However, everyone looked quite familiar, as it tends to go in a small town. I could hear the band tuning their instruments, so I avoided going into the hall quite yet and instead stood in the corner looking out the big windows to the bay.
I thought back to when I first started playing the steel drums. I was terrible. My bandmates frequently made cheeky remarks on my inherent lack of rhythm. I couldn’t even find a beat, much less move my feet to it. While I quickly learned what the steel drums were — and I could hit a note just fine — something in me had absolutely no sense of rhythm. It was like relearning how to walk. When everyone else was on break from playing the drums, I would practice just tapping along to a metronome, eventually working up to moving my feet while playing, and finally playing notes and moving my feet at the same time. It felt unnatural, but eventually I settled into my body and learned how to play different rhythms on the steelpans while moving my feet to a beat.
I looked out the window for as long as I could without being suspicious. After I had gone pee twice just to kill time, I knew that I had to go in and dance. I could hear the band playing, and they were playing one of my favorite songs! I had already seen this band twice that summer, but I had never gone alone. I worked up my courage and went into the room. Even though the band was bumping up on the stage, the dance floor was mostly clear. There were a few people milling around in the back, a few older folk sitting down, and basically no one dancing. It was my worst nightmare. I really wanted to dance, but I didn’t feel as though I could get in front of everyone and be the one to start.
When I learned how to play the steel drums, I learned how to dance. During our band gigs, I became the one leading the rest of the band, unashamed to move my feet, my arms, my whole body to the beat. Being in the comfort of the rest of the band made me feel unstoppable. We would all move as one, dancing and playing as a collective unit. The audience loved it, and would dance along. By the time summer rolled around, I was ready for my first real dance. Another steel drum band played, and all of the locals came out to the park to dance, dance, dance. I was proud to be one of them.
In the hall, I sat down and took off my shoes. I knew that if I did, I would be able to move so much more. I stashed my sandals under a chair, shrugged off my jacket, and tried to hype myself up to dance. A few people had started to move, more people milled in, but still the crowd wasn’t there. All of a sudden, a little girl ran up to the front, right by the stage. With curly hair in two pigtails, a bright pink top, and three layered skirts, she was an image to behold. She started jumping up and down, and, almost, dancing. I knew that I couldn’t be showed up. Even though I was there by myself, I had to start. I needed to dance.
Typically, I danced every chance that I got. Once I learned how, it was hard to stop. My friends and I frequented the floor. I learned to spin and twirl, to move my feet and to swing my arms. I learned organized moves in contra dancing or line dancing, but I also learned how to let go, lean my head back, be free, and dance, dance, dance. With my friends, I was never worried or self-conscious. When I danced, I felt at home in my body.
Out on the dance floor– with my only partner an eight-year-old girl– I remembered once again that I love to dance. I was quick to forget, but as soon as I started moving, I remembered the beauty of it, and what I learned from my time playing the steeldrums. I remembered that I don’t need to be hidden beside others, I could dance, and I could dance on my own. I started moving and spinning and twirling. I started moving and didn’t stop. When I looked up a bit later, there were many others on the floor. It was a whole crowd. I didn’t know the names of anyone around me, but I didn’t need to know them. In the end, all I needed was to dance.