But not just rage. I want you to dance with me.
With apologies to Dylan Thomas, as I read about yet another one of Trump’s cruel orders, I’m angry. I’m angry at those who voted for cruelty, I’m angry at those empowering the cruelty, and I’m angry at those who will be “just following orders” to implement the cruelty.
But that’s not what I want to write about. I want to write about dancing. And I’m writing to the trans community. Cis folks, if you live in the USA, go scream, channeling the rage of the trans folks you know, at your senators and tell them to fucking do something. Go donate to a trans person’s GoFundMe. And maybe don’t help Trump hurt us. But, trans folk, I want you to dance with me.
Lest anyone think I actually know much about dance, I don’t. The closest I get to dancing is if I throw my middle-aged bones into a mosh pit at a punk show. Or if I, while alone, embrace pounding sound, music at the level where it’s painful, but pour my autistic self into that sound and allow my body to move, strange as those movements may look to others. But in both these cases, one in community and one in solitude, there is a moment of reprieve, even a moment of joy. A moment where the noise of the world is overwhelmed by the sensation of sound and the awareness of my body being carried by it, of outside forces shoving me this way or that, of the sound itself moving my limbs. I’m connected, whether it’s to strangers who happen to like the same music as I do or to the music itself.
Right now we need that.
We need to dance.
That’s what Stonewall taught us. That’s what Dewey’s taught us. That’s what Cooper Do-Nuts taught us. That’s what Compton Cafeteria taught us. That when we’re happy, that’s a threat to the order of things. When we gathered with our friends and showed off our outfits. When we laughed at whatever antics the most outlandish of us did. When we laughed about pulling one over on the authorities who tried to bust one of our number. And, importantly, when we danced. We were a threat.
Don’t believe me? Think of what you know about Stonewall. No, I don’t give a shit who threw the first brick. But think of those kids out partying. The jukebox was playing something. I wonder what. Maybe a transbian was wondering if she had the courage to ask another transbian to the dance floor. Gossip was being exchanged. Maybe someone was telling everyone about a particularly outlandish set of flowers in Marsha’s hair the other day. Someone probably had their arm around someone else. All while drinking watered-down booze from dirty glasses. But it was joy. People came because they wanted to see other people like themself. And they came because they wanted to share joy and share in joy.
Then: BOOM! The jukebox goes silent. Everyone knows what is going on: yet another raid by the pigs.
But this time? This time they had enough. They weren’t doing anything that harmed anyone else. They were dancing when the pigs showed up. And that dancing was enough for the pigs to “just follow orders.”
You know the story. If you don’t, go read about it! The blood of your transcestors flows in your veins, for we have family not limited to mothers and fathers! Know your history!
When they fought that first night, they sung. They danced. They laughed.
Hell, they made it a party nobody wanted to miss the next night. Or the next.
Our joy is powerful. It is what powers our resistance. Why did these people, who had every reason to be beat down, react with power rather than resignation? I believe it was because they had something to fight for: joy. They were fighting for dancing.
So, try to find a way to dance. And find community, a place where you can laugh and share that joy. It is hard, but we’ve got the blood of our trancestors running through our veins: and they knew how to dance, even when it was in front of a line of riot cops.
Gendered Thoughts 