Back in the heart of Panama City, I visit Bohio Florencia, a dance studio that teaches salsa dancing, from basic steps to detailed twists and turns.
The instructor stands on a small stage, his head brushing against the foam-tiled ceiling, as he hollers instructions, corrections, and calls out numbers to mark the steps: “ONE-two-three-four… ONE-two-three-four…” He deftly corrects veteran dancers learned mistakes: “Do you tap in between each step when you walk? Like this… No? So don’t do it when you dance.” He guides new dancers through the motions: “Your other left turquesa, your other left.”
During a break, I ask the instructor to dance, and he gives me helpful tips as we move. I listen, follow, and then he says nothing else except, “Tu te dejas guiar muy bien.” (You allow yourself to be led really well.) I like that this statement recognizes that I am not powerless, that I am making a choice to follow. This element of choice, and the considerate communication that is necessary between two dancers for things to flow correctly, is why, as a survivor of sexual violence, dancing is one of the few spaces/activities where I feel empowered, fully present, and safe in my body.
There is an intimacy to dancing that allows me to connect with strangers, practicing my ability to assert boundaries, while strengthening my intuition. Once I married, I found that it was a level of intimacy I preferred to reserve for my partner, Cleveland. He doesn’t mind my dancing with strangers, but for some reason I do.
I suspect, in a way, dancing helped me find Cleveland, by giving me practice in discernment. I learned to easily differentiate between the potential partners who wanted to lead without tuning into my cues, and my husband: the one who is very in tune with my needs, and willingly takes turns in the lead.
Throughout our marriage, dancing has helped us deepen our connection. In Panama City, we lived in a condo steps away from the National Park. Some nights we would turn off all the lights, and with the moon streaming in our window, we would dance to reggae or soca, whatever we could find on the radio. We would have dance offs (Cleveland would always win) in which we would imitate dances that went out of style decades ago. By the end we would dissolve into laughter and feel much closer to one another.
Recently, Cleveland came to me while our newborn baby was sleeping. He handed me a small note card that said, “Will you dance with me?” I giggled silently. I walked into our living room, stepped onto his yoga mat, and lifted my hands to the air. Together, we danced to the silent sounds of love, security, balance, and happiness. I feel safe. I feel alive. I feel present. And I am grateful for the dance.
