Dance Party

I check my watch. We really should be walking to the car now if I’m going to get my students back to school in time for the bus.

I look back to my students. They’ve joined the long conga-line dancing its way around the room.

This morning they hung back, huddling nervously together. During the giant rock-paper-scissors game designed to encourage participants to mingle, they played rock-paper-scissors with each other, over and over.

At lunch they eagerly reported back to me, “We made a new friend!”

Now they’re towards the front of the line, hands on the shoulders of each other–yes–but also of people who were strangers a few hours ago. They’re singing along to the music, all self-consciousness forgotten.

I wait until the song ends, then head onto the dance floor to tell them we need to head out now. Except, before I reach them, “Shake It Off” comes on.

My students LOVE this song.

In September, O., one of the quietest kids in the class, shared this song as her favorite, then belted out the lyrics in a strong, confident voice I rarely hear from her.

On the car ride this morning, the girls in my car sang the entire song a capella–besides the pencils they used to beat out the rhythm of the opening–taking breaths exactly where Taylor does, and speaking the bridge exactly in unison.

I decide to wait. One more song won’t make that much of a difference. –Except it will to the girls.

They–and every other participant in the room–belt out the lyrics, perfectly in sync. My girls jump up and down, fling their arms out, dance with abandon. They are joyful.

I am joyful, watching them.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been joyful with this group of kids. We’ve needed this moment.

I hover with my phone out, trying to catch their poses, wanting to hold onto this moment.

When the song ends, I hurry over. “I’m so sorry, but we have to start heading back to school,” I tell them.

“Just one more song?” they plead. The music has started. Their bodies are already starting to move.

“One more,” I agree.

More and more dancers join their circle, jumping and spinning and singing.

I think of the scene in the young adult book Moxie, when a group of high school girls spend an empowering afternoon dancing in the company of other girls. It’s a powerful thing, to dance for yourself, with people you trust dancing all around.

After the song ends we leave. My students are ecstatic. Today was an amazing day. “I felt like a rock star!” E. says. “We were dancing, and then everyone came and joined us! It was so awesome!”

“That’s what happens when you’re not self-conscious,” I say to the group, wishing for them to have so, so many more moments like this in their lives. “When you just have fun, without worrying about what other people might think, other people want to join in with you and have that fun, too.”

“Yeah,” they say, then go back to reminding each other how fun it was to feel like rock stars.

When we get back to the car I text the school secretary to let her know we’re running late.

I’m not sorry, even for a second.