Dancing

A gust of cold Oregonian wind blows my curled, dark hair back as Sophie slides open the glass door. The pop music behind us mingles with the laughter and singing from inside the house. The porch, made of stone slabs has moss peeking through the cracks. It is cold on our bare feet, and damp from the day’s rain. 

It’s a clear night in Arlington Heights, and the Portland lights that glitter like stars have turned on early, flashing and blinking in the March night sky. I’m laughing, my arm around the shoulder of my closest friend, Marin. She looks perfect in her dress; black skirt with a top that matches the Amelia Renaissance rose (one of my favorites, for its thick petals). It's a rose I am sure lies in the Portland Rose Gardens below us. The blush on her cheeks matches her dress perfectly, and though I wear no makeup, I know I’m just as pink from the chilly breeze. 

“Thank you, next!” We shout to the wind-swept pines, singing along to the music that blasts inside. “Spend more time with my friends, I’m not worried ‘bout nothin’,” I twirl, my jumpsuit of coral and black and greens spinning above the dew-dropped bryophytas. Beside me, some of the friends from inside are trickling out into the night to join us. There’s a boy like me, who doesn’t attend the private school with Marin or Sofia, and came with his friend. I wonder if he feels out of place at all, or if he is standing inside, waiting for his buddy or some girl to dance with him. Looking left and then right, I find him. He’s dancing by me, and in the moment we make eye contact, I understand he feels as connected and in-touch with the rest of the group as I do. 

We, the band of ten kids, some from the private school and some not, dance and sing on the cold, stone porch until the dance has started. The real dance, of course, at the high school. Frantically giggling and rushing to the cars, we sing to the radio at the top of our lungs on the ride there, girls touching up their makeup, myself texting my always strict parents. Mom, I say, I texted you five minutes ago. I’m fine. No boy trouble. It’s just a high school dance! I slip my phone back into my purse and vow not to touch it for the remainder of the night. 

We join the dancing crowd in the already sweaty gymnasium, swaying and singing and jumping to the new songs (Youngblood, Better Now, God’s Plan, Panini, 7 Rings) and the good hits (I Wanna Dance With Somebody, Sweet Dreams, Never Gonna Give You Up, Baby Got Back) and of course, the ‘high school dance must-plays list’ as Marin and I call it. That’s Apple Bottom Jeans, Anaconda, The Cupid Shuffle, Get Low, and (surprisingly) Sweet Caroline. Songs that somehow spark our generation into song and swinging moves, every time. 

I think it’s nice how a dance removes a bit of a person’s outside layers. The clothes and looks don’t matter, it’s about the soul. That’s the difference between a mediocre dance and a great one-- the people. This dance had people left and right opening up. We screamed every song as one group, all of us loudly humming to the tune when no one knew the words. We were not ashamed to jump into the dance circle, to go a little crazy or be a little free. 

One song specifically was my favorite. The whole gym, all one hundred and fifty or so people, tilted their heads to the stars, as though it wasn't concealed by a dusty ceiling, and sang. The DJ, who must have been surprised, cut the music real quick, but either no one noticed, or no one cared. 

“Take on me! Take, on me! Take me on! Take, on me!” We joined arms, every person linking until the circle included teens of every age, every gender, every race. It was teachers and students, girls in tight little dresses and boys in button up shirts and jeans, all circled up and singing no matter the choir champion next to you or the unpopular geek three people down. We were a mob of connected individuals, one big hug to the generations and the uniqueness we represented. The silence of the gym was gone, music gone, only us, one connected group, as we sang.

“I’ll be gone, in a day or two!” Our embrace gave some kind of message, I think, as our voices echoed away from the buildings of downtown Portland and into the quiet night streets. We all have souls, and no matter their differences, we can all be connected or gathered in some way. All of us are here for a good time, to do something with our lives, however short they may be. 

It was a crazy night, and one of the first times I think I really felt older but young, and so trapped yet free. I danced with everyone, laughing and bouncing and living in a drift. When the DJ finally powered off the speakers, half an hour after the scheduled dance ending time, there weren’t many of us left. We all groaned and booed, but we couldn’t keep a frown. Sweaty and hot, it was refreshing to step out into the dark, arms linked with the arms of others, and breath the fresh Willamette air. 

We went home in a group of about five, all girls, singing to the radio with little show of our exhaustion. Making waffles and snacking on marshmallows dipped in chocolate, we gossiped and debated and questioned everything; our classes at school, the weird boy we didn’t like, world poverty and how that affected us and our generation. 

Before I drifted off to sleep, around four AM in a sleeping bag in a home away from mine, I thought about our night. Maybe Gen Z wasn’t so frivolous and distracted. Maybe we could do something about all the issues of the world. And maybe we could do this again, next year, dancing on the cold stone in the dark. Forgetting about problems, not missing responsibilities, and tilting our heads to the stars, breathless and pink from the cold. Dancing, together.