I’m going to wade into the discussion about bodies and lindy hop any second now. Because Parrot and Cat and Lindy Shopper and Aries have not only had a rowdy back-and-forth about bodies and clothing in dance, with high emotion and all caps (oh, that was probably me with the all caps), they’ve also had a series of calm, caring private message conversations (as have I).
Because feminist talk is robust. We can be furious and loud and shouting, and then we can also apologise, we can have calm discussion and we can talk about how we feel without getting all shitty pants. We can work hard to understand each other’s points of view, and we can also maintain our commitment to an idea. This is how feminism works, my friends. We do consensus, but we also do disagreement and negotiation. We do shouting, and we also do quiet talk. And I am feeling quite proud that such intelligent, capable, motivated, ambitious, formidable Sisters can do all this and STILL come out of this being awesome. And I’m super excited by the thought that these women are all my friends and that I can send them an email or private message to check in and see if they’re ok, or to share ideas, or to get angry and motivated.
But before I write about the fascinating, engrossing ideas that have been prompted by this discussion, I have things to do. I have to plan these three lindy hop weekends, get some DJs for another exchange, do some jobs for One Billion (Jazz dancers) Rising (which is on next week, and you should come), sort out some admin for my dance class, learn to strap my newly-bung foot, and do some of my paid work. That’s an awful lot of thinking about dancing, right there.
Wait. Commercial Time.
Some very clever friends of mine have organised a dance for next Thursday (14th February) night at the Petersham Bowling Club. There’s a free class at 7pm (taught by one or two women – one could be me, the other is definitely Alice, who is SOLO JAZZ QUEEN), then dancing til late to three female DJs (who are me, Kat Galang (who is fucking A1 DJ atm) and Justine Kinkade (Juke Joint organiser, long standing DJ GUN)). There will be raffles with a bunch of top prizes, including dance classes, random things, and a bundle of CDs donated by a heap of bands (GOOD CDs).
THE IMPORTANT PART: all profits are being donated to the Taree Women and Children’s Shelter. ALL the profits!
I think this is the best idea for an event, and I feel so thrilled and honoured to be part of such an exciting project. This is a really stop shelf team of women organisers and talent, and I have to point out: our Sydney dance scene has a lot of amazing women doing quite innovative and top quality work. We have some totally quality men involved and doing great work as well, but Sydney’s lindy hop scene should feel very proud of the arse kicker chicks we have. Look, I just feel massive wub for my local dance scene, ok?
This is why I don’t have time to respond to what is, essentially, same old beauty myth rubbish. I’m busy fucking over the patriarchy over here, so I trust you guys to get business done over there.
But I will say that while I am doing all these jobs, my breasts are often exposed because I rarely wear a bra, YOLO, and I work from home. If I were to flash my tits at a kid, I’d probably lol, and they’d probably lol because HA HA! One of the best dancing nights I’ve ever had was in a friend’s lounge room. I danced so hard I popped three buttons off my dress and didn’t notice and nor did anyone else and the half dozen kids there were wholly uninterested (at which I was quite disappointed). But I was kind of traumatised because I kept standing on bits of lego in my bare feet.
This is the most important thing I have to say:
If women spend half their lives fucking about worrying about what they look like, they don’t have time for much more important things. Like DANCING LIKE SUPERHEROES and DJing and running events and planning gigs for charities and talking shit with their homies.
So, really, who gives a flying fuck what someone ELSE is wearing? Really, you have much more important things to do!
