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I am a white, disabled nerd, and dancing has rarely been my forte. I remember liking to dance a random assortment of frantic foot motions at weddings while I was in middle school—and relishing the attention. But since then, anxiety, depression, and bad memories have combined to make me extremely self-conscious on and off the dance floor. I hate bars and clubs for multiple reasons, not the least of which involves social anxiety around alcohol, which I don’t consume.
But sometimes, when I’m at home, I cut loose. Because of coordination issues that I have related to my Asperger’s syndrome/Autism Spectrum Disorder, I’m extremely clumsy, but I give myself enough space to bust out of my cocoon. I don’t move my feet much, but I move my hands and upper body in different patterns that may or may not qualify as “good dancing.” And that’s progress for me because for a long time, I couldn’t even dance alone.
Even though I tend to not listen to a lot of dance music as dance music—I pay more attention to the records’ songwriting, arranging, and level of craftsmanship—I tend to enjoy listening to Michael Jackson, Prince, Robyn, Madonna, and other artists amidst my more extensive collection of classic soul, rock, jazz, country, and folk. Let’s not forget, though, that genres like soul were originally for dancing, but instead of dancing to such records, I have the unfortunate habit of overthinking and intellectualizing what records “mean.”
This relates to a point that music historian Elijah Wald makes in his groundbreaking book, How the Beatles Destroyed Rock ‘n’ Roll: An Alternative History of American Popular Music: “It is often said that history is written by the victors, but in the case of pop music that is rarely true. The victors tend to be out dancing, while the historians sit at their desks, assiduously chronicling music they cannot hear on mainstream radio.” Wald goes on to extend this argument to critics and others who write about popular music (97.)
As someone who others called a music historian long before I identified as one, I find that this argument resonates strongly with me. I don’t enjoy dancing most of the time, but I notice that most people who engage with popular music in a more social, less hyper-analytical way enjoy it. This social separation doesn’t necessarily make me feel more left out than I already do as someone on the Autism spectrum; it does, however, reinforce the feelings of being left out that are already present.
Still, even with the dynamics of disability, this may all sound, bluntly put, extremely white to the general reader, and to an extent, they’re right—after all, pop culture texts ranging from Brad Paisley’s country hit, “Alcohol,” to the blog Stuff White People Like testify to the durability of the (well-founded?) stereotype that white people don’t dance at concerts, don’t dance without alcohol, and generally don’t dance, period. So that may very well be a part of my unusual awkwardness on the dance floor, as an African American professor that I know well once said to me, “I’ve seen black people with Asperger’s dance,” as opposed to people like me who usually stand on the side. But the combination of whiteness (a form of privilege) with Asperger’s (a disability) makes for an especially strong dynamic when I’m at parties, or alone. I stop myself from dancing after a few bars of music because I feel self-conscious, and/or like I’m out of moves.
On the other side of this inequity, much has been written about what ethnomusicologist Mellonee Burnim has called “the unification of song and dance” in African and Afrodiasporic, including African American, musical traditions (I take the quote from Portia K. Maultsby’s 1990 essay, “Africanisms in African-American Music,” 191). This means that to Burnim and other scholars, Afrodiasporic musical performances often are considered multimedia, multidimensional spectacles, where dance is part of the music in a way that may not be as common in white musical cultures.
I, on the other hand—as a white, nerdy, gay, and disabled man who does love to sing and write songs (you can read about one of them here: goodmenproject.com/featured-content/6-moments-when-music-made-my-life-better-bbab/ )—do not see dancing becoming part of my occasional performances anytime soon. But the good news is, again, that I’m learning to dance more at home.
I put on Michael Jackson’s Dangerous on my stereo. Of the two halves of the album, I enjoy the second half more, but most of the dance tracks are in the first half. I’ve never been able to perform choreographed dance routines well with my coordination issues, but I can improvise brief, repetitive patterns, mainly with my hands and arms, and that will do for me. The edgy, agitated funk of “Jam” sends me into a brief trance, and much later on the album, the cinematic sonic scope of “Will You Be There” (later used as the theme for the movie, Free Willy) makes me dance at a pace with which I’m more comfortable.
I should add that while never feeling completely comfortable at parties, I currently live near a lot of gay bars, where dancing to pulsating beats at loud volume is quite common, probably with headache-inducing lights . . . I say “probably” because I don’t usually go into bars, especially alone, as I don’t drink, and such environments are often toxic for how isolated I feel. I shrink inward as everyone around me becomes more extroverted.
Maybe someday, though, I’ll get to a place where I meet somebody—hopefully outside of a bar—and we’ll get married, dancing to a slow dance classic at the reception. Maybe something from the ‘90s will suffice: Seal’s “Kiss from a Rose”? Savage Garden’s “Truly Madly Deeply”? If my partner can stand it, I might choose George Strait’s “I Cross My Heart,” one of my favorite country love songs of all time, and we will dance, slowly, just being close to each other. But hopefully I’ll be able to dance to something a little livelier, too, without feeling self-conscious.
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There’s an unexpected postscript to this story. As I write this, yesterday was an incredible day that I’ll never forget; it was my grandmother’s memorial service. I was exceptionally close to her, and I spoke at the service. Later that day, I had a chance to spend some time with a dear cousin with whom I hadn’t always been on good terms. I told him about this article, and he talked about how he loves to dance at friends’ concerts. He coaxed me into dancing to music in my apartment, and Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” suddenly took on new meaning when I started turning and moving my feet, as clumsily as expected, but it was fun. I was out of breath, but it’s amazing to dance when you feel accepted by others and by yourself. I think my grandmother would have approved of me finding joy on such a difficult day.
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