Music is the best escape. Actually dance,
to be more specific. So when an opportunity presented itself, I had to jump on
that bandwagon because Lord knows I need it. What better way to shake off the
last four months than salsa? New moves. New event. New start.
I felt a little foolish not knowing the
band set to be performing. It might have been wise to research them earlier in
the day like I had done for the last concert I agreed to attend. There I was,
letting YouTube shuffle a playlist of Lil Kim and Faith Evans, as well as Puff
Daddy, while I cleaned my room, to further educate me on their wide array of
songs besides the total of three I knew. Still, I looked out of place at the
Bad Boy Family Reunion concert and had a blast nonetheless.
But here, since it was salsa, I knew that
it would give me rhythm no less, so I didn't worry too much. And as the night
progressed, I found that their beats and sounds were as smooth as silk, needing
no introduction. In between salsa steps, I sat back and watched the small world
before me. It was amazing to witness how people of all ethnicities, all
religions, all backgrounds and all ages came together peacefully, judgment
free, to do what they love. No one cared about politics. There was no room for
hate. All I saw were spirits laughing, ladies twirling, men clapping and over a
hundred people united in happiness. Can we forget politics and just dance?
It was almost a perfect night (aside from
frequently checking my phone for updates I knew wouldn't be coming from someone
I knew wasn’t thinking of me) when an obviously Middle Eastern man made his way
over. Aside from my girlfriend and I, he and his friend were the only other
Arabs onsite and they had been eyeing us (eerily) for a while.
"Hello!" he shouted above the
music in a thick accent, a mere three inches from my face. I smiled sheepishly
as I nodded in response, only slightly oblivious of what was to come. This is
the issue with men from overseas; not all but most, have this misconception
that simply responding to a greeting is a green light to start naming our
children. He immediately proceeded to tell me he's from Algeria, had only been
in the U.S. for four months, studies in the Valley but lives in South Bay and needed
to know my age. Because my life is seemingly an ongoing comedy, I obliged,
curious to see how repulsed he would be with my response. "I'm 28," I
replied over the music. His look of utter shock and disgust sent me cracking up
near the dance floor.
"TWENTY-EIGHT?!?!" he shrieked.
"Really, twenty…eight???" he said again, this time
like it were something he was tasting and forcefully trying to swallow. "Hmm,
twenty-eight. Fine. Okay, we make work. Now me, you guess me." For those
confused, let me clarify. By Middle Eastern standards, 28 is past old maid
status. I’m like ten years late to the game. Imagine his reaction if he found
out I was divorced too. Ya wailee!
I wanted to unleash the inner b****
considering his childish behavior and everything else piled up on my plate of
life, but I just shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said lackadaisically, “Same as
me?” He smiled slyly like he thought he was succeeding at the art of seduction.
He shook his head and gestured that I aim higher. “Thirty?” I asked with
obvious impatience. He laughed and said, “Nooooo!! Thirty-one! Come. We
go outside. Talk. Music not letting me hear you.”
He grabbed my hand aggressively and started
to drag me across the room. That was my defining moment where the utter sense
of fear was reawakened within me horrifically; remembering what it was like to
be touched without consent and being too overpowered with terror to fend for
myself. It was a 30 second mental and physical battle as I realized how deeply
internalized it is for many of us women, that even after enduring and escaping
abuse and violence, we find moments where we suffer extreme anxiety at
disappointing or discomforting another—especially
if it’s a man—that we bend over backwards and inconvenience ourselves instead.
What if he’s offended? What if he thinks I really am a b****? What if…?
At the end of that 30-second mental
epiphany, I felt the anger within rise and pulled my hand away assertively. His look of
disappointment and offense shook me because it reminded me of the many moments
I saw that cold death stare from the eyes of my ex. The difference? This time, I had the courage and conviction to stare back
confidently at the jerk before me with a “Screw you if you have a problem with
a woman who respects herself” look and it felt so good. I guess unfortunately
it is much easier to do with a man who is of no value to you. When it’s your
fiancé/husband/father/brother/boyfriend/loved one, it’s not that easy.
“You have boyfriend?” he asked. Shortly I
said, “No,” and proceeded to walk away. “You want to make halal boyfriend with me? I
want to make relationship with you.” I shook my head and moved on when he
asked, “But why?”
I could almost pity him for being so ignorant
as to why. What’s wrong with you, Dania? Here is a man who wants you, who is
attending a Salsa Concert so, clearly he loves music and dance! What more could
you ask for woman! He’s 31, just landed in America less than half a year ago
and hates it here (as he expressed), doesn’t speak English or even Arabic for
that matter (the majority of Algerians speak Berber versus colloquial
Arabic), thinks he can put his hands on you, hasn’t finished school and
believes you could make such a halal relationship. Come on!
I will give him credit. Following my second
firm rejection, he tried to fist bump me and scour the hall for the next
victim. Like all men who come my way and leave, he walked away unfazed. Now if
only I could walk away unscathed from those my heart beats for.
The night was still salvageable thanks the
beautiful sounds of a Boogaloo Assassins—ten
amazingly sounding sharply dressed men bringing to life the invigorating sounds
of salsa. I will admit though, all I was craving the rest of the night was
some chips and salsa, and yeah, some freshly made guacamole! I also started
craving to get back on the formal dance train and further expand my
choreography, a project I set my sights on years ago, and can proudly say I am finally going to make happen!
I can hear the cringes of the religious
police, but nothing has been able to break me away from dance. Second to
writing, dancing is the single greatest healing element I’ve come across in my
life. It’s the one expression I cannot put into words, and that’s what makes it
even more mesmerizingly beautiful.
One time a Facebook friend posted this
extremely interestingly worded question for the world to ponder that she heard
someone ask on a radio talk show: What are you
doing when you feel most beautiful? I don’t know why, maybe it was the gravity
of all I had been enduring, but that question left me in awe for three full
days. Deep in contemplation, I realized I rarely feel beautiful. Maybe there are days where I think I may kind of
sort of look beautiful because my makeup was “on fleek” (as the kids today say)
but ten minutes into the day, when the concealer smudges, I don’t see the
beauty. Every hour of those next three days I paid extra attention to my
routines and wondered when do I feel
beautiful. Feel.
Then, on that
third day, in my ten second water break during my dance workout, facing the wall
mirror with a completely shameful looking frizzy Shakira-wannabe hairstyle,
sweaty forehead, red cheeks and drenched tank, I saw the aftermath of feeling
beautiful. Emphasis on that phrasing: the
aftermath of feeling beautiful.
The elevating
sense of liberation created from every dance step is indescribable. When
that choreography finally clicks and flows the way it should in synchrony with
the song I’ve been studying for weeks, I feel beautiful. It’s like I’m lost and
found all at once and that’s the best oxymoron to be engulfed in when you’re
losing what you want to lose from yourself and finding what you’ve been
searching for.
There’s
something absolutely powerful about a woman who feels beautiful because it
means she is ready to face the world with confidence in who she is internally. It is when that music
takes over that I feel invincible, quite similar to the sensation of writing
that last sentence of an article or closing a poem. But I guess I can see why
the religious police finds this equation concerning. Feeling Beautiful + Woman
= DANGEROUS POWER. I look forward to the day when that power is not labeled an
intimidation. A day where we’re constantly enabled to feel beautiful instead of
expected to only look beautiful, and allowed to stand on that platform of confidence.
Until then,
bring on the chips and salsa and let’s celebrate the dangerous scandal of
feeling beautiful, finding our courage, remembering our worth and dancing!
