BOOGIE ON DOWN
Dance Party D.C.
We hold these grooves to be self-evident
I love to dance, and that’s a problem. Though problems lead to opportunity.
They say, If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was.
No.
If you love something, you need it to stick to you like a tick — sucking the life right out of you but giving that life right back. In the case of a tick, it can give you Lyme Disease.
So, dance — I want it with me always. I want a little shimmy, a wiggle, a swoop, a twirl. I want to feel the groove of the music in my soul. Even if it’s in the lawn aisle at Home Depot twirling a shovel as my Gene Kelly umbrella while I hum “Singing in the Rain”.
Why does everybody have to stare all the time?
However, there are certain days at certain times in certain places that maybe you should pry your dance from your heart and slip it into your pocket.
It will stay close to your body and soul, but it won’t get you on CNN and Fox News.
I speak from experience.
It started innocently as I looked out my window at the sunniest day unfolding in front of my grooving self. I thought, Steph, you must walk around the city on a day like today. I got in my car, drove into Washington D.C., and began to walk around.
“This day,” I said out loud to no one, “Is one of those perks of having been born. Good job being born!”
Then I did a little sashay, and a bump and grind. Then the guy at the hotdog stand gave me a big sex-inducing whistle. I glared and quickly walked off.
Why does everybody have to catcall all the time? I am not a cat!!
Despite the hotdog guy, I felt great about my choice to walk the city. The air was dry and light. The crowds were bearable. Slowly I danced my way around the National Mall, a long rectangular expanse of grassy park.
All manner of history has happened there. The first telegraph was sent. Women marched for the right to vote. Martin Luther King spoke here. Presidents were inaugurated.
It is the place to dance. Gradually, I danced myself all around, up and down, and alongside it. Traffic stopped in a snarl to watch me — rude! Who cares. I don’t let others bring me down.
Honk if you want, buster! You wish you were me!
Some folks dragged their small children over to “see what a crazy lady looks like.” I smiled and waved. I invited them to my dance party. They swooped up their children, shielded their eyes, and scurried away.
To each their own! Have a nice day!
Eventually, Park Police came over and said point-blank, “What are you doing?” This interrupted my jam, but then they got a call and started sprinting towards — I don’t know — a suspected terrorist? So my dance party resumed.
By this point, I’d approached the steps of the Capitol Building — a perfect place to dance your heart out.
I began a tap dance improvisation from one side of the steps to the other, gradually weaving my way up, one step at a time. I could feel the America in my veins looking out onto D.C., as well as my inner Gregory Hines. I got so immersed in the beat of my feet that I took no notice of the crowd growing around me on the steps.
A guy to my left started shuffling his feet in a two-step. A young woman grabbed his hands, and they kicked up a merengue. Two others took up in each other’s arms and followed suit. I clapped.
Now THIS is what I’m talking about, people!
Some older fellow began a mutation of disco and robot. It was like John Travolta had a baby with a cyborg. It made my heart swell.
Dance mania began to spread. A buzz started to build.
The merengue dancers morphed into a nearby conga line. Moonwalkers slid their moves into the Cha-Cha. Break dancers blended with the ballet students in the middle of the steps. I moved toward the hip-hoppers to add to my repertoire.
Then, out of nowhere, U.S. senators started to appear on the steps. I bit my lip. Was this copacetic?
Absolutely!
Wyoming started doing the macarena with Vermont. Oregon ballroom danced with Alabama. New York started up the Electric Slide with Texas. “It’s electric!”
I know you will believe me when I say none of them could dance worth a penny, but it made my heart swell to see them embarrassing themselves, nonetheless.
In no time, word got out and cable news cameras showed up to cash in on the deal. I don’t blame them. Dance is dance, money is money, and politics is money. All of it’s a dance — and all of it is embarrassing.
Access was a problem though. Fox News tried to ask Mitch McConnell if his pirouettes were a harbinger for the mid-terms. Mitch ignored them as he exhaled a meaty grunt, grabbed Diane Feinstein around the waist, hoisted her, and tip-toed her in the air above his head. His eyeglasses crashed to the ground, but Diane spread her arms wide and glided like a bird. It was as if Mikhail Baryshnikov had grown old and lost his sight, and Misty Copeland had grown quite old and gone into politics.
A constituent ran up and placed a huge pair of Elton John glasses on Mitch, to which he nodded approval in his typical austerity. Diane lovingly patted him on the head. My heart was nearly bursting.
CNN kept on the heels of Elizabeth Warren to investigate why she chose step dance over modern dance. Was this a message? She breezed right past them with a spine as straight as the x-axis on a financial report and a gaze to a precise 90° left. Lindsey Graham, her partner, was in tight formation next to her as he’s able to follow anyone’s lead, his gaze 90° to the right. They both winked at the reporter, made cross-eyes, then briskly step-danced away.
I tried to get their autographs as they passed me, but Elizabeth tripped on Lindsey’s toe and they both went tumbling into Paul Rand and Bernie Sanders who were doing random headstands on the step below.
There were senatorial pairings all around the Capitol steps — counter-intuitively so. Susan Collins was doing the flamenco with Cory Booker. John Hickenlooper was belly dancing with Marco Rubio.
Reporters couldn’t figure out who started this mish-mosh. So they circled me and crimped my style. They blasted me with their ping-pong of ding-a-ling questions.
“Ms. Wilson! Do you expect to be asked to dance at the Super Bowl?!”
“Ms. Wilson! Will you dance for Ukraine?!”
“Ms. Wilson! Why don’t your socks match?!”
I ignored them, fell backward onto my hands, and started to break dance. I spun around on my back like an upside-down turtle. I flipped in severe contortion like a human fish. I made my arms like ocean waves.
This was all filmed, of course, and broadcast that evening for the world to see. I watched it in horror. I wished I’d done more with my upside-down turtle. It ended up fine, though, because opportunity knocked.
While the Super Bowl never called, the Senate sure did. I go into D.C. on weekdays now to run a dance class for senators. Most of them show up. It’s fun. Ron Johnson and Tim Kaine are my star tango students, but Mitt Romney needs help with his boogie-woogie. Amy Klobuchar wants me to start a square dance on Friday nights.
It’s work, but I love it. Do what you love. I love to dance.
It might be self-evident that T. Kent Jones had his editing hand in this, but if not — he did, thankfully. This story is nothing but a collective groove!
Ahem. I think you should get back to work now but read these first.
You know you want to click on this cat.
