Dancing My Fears Away (Summer 2001)
By Roger Roe

 

At the 2001 National Stuttering Association convention in Boston, I began to realize that I hadn't danced much lately. Sometimes I am too tired to go out. My partner's foot gives him trouble, so I use that as an
excuse. The smoke and the crowds at the clubs are just not worth it. Blah, blah, blah. The list goes on.

But I used to dance all the time. I took tap and ballet and jazz and modern. I went to an arts high school where we were encouraged to learn about movement and to feel its power. My mom even used to move the furniture out of the way to teach me to polka and waltz and jitterbug. When did I stop? Why would I let myself lose that wonderful, free feeling I get on the dance floor?

I think I stopped when I became self-conscious, when I started to notice people noticing me. Did I look funny to them, or were they looking at me because they liked my dancing? Maybe that guy is laughing at me and not at the video clips or the joke his friend just told. I look too nelly when I dance. I should never raise my hands above my head. I just need to look serious and quit smiling and don't do any turns and don't lip-synch and stop letting my wrists go limp and, above all, don't get up on those platforms any more. Those are for younger boys, thinner boys, cuter boys. Nobody wants to see me up there. When you're up there, everyone notices everything you do. They'll point and sneer and say in that way we have, "Who does she think she is?"

Well, fuck all that. I've been dancing all summer.

Every time I go out dancing with my queer stuttering brothers and sisters, I feel more alive and freer than ever before. Part of it this year was simply strength in numbers. We just created a dance floor on the stage
in front of the video screens, and filled it up with moving bodies. And, yes, we were up on a platform. And, yes, everyone in the bar was looking at us. But so many of the patrons were drawn to us. They saw a shine, an energy from the group. This shine is seductive, palpable, and self-sustaining. Once it begins, it blossoms. You see the light in the eyes of the others in the group, and your light grows stronger. You see Al going crazy and looking so beautiful on the dance floor, and you decide to go for it, too. Nora catches your eye with her sexy body, and you go groove next to that for a while. You get off seeing the filmmaker in the group, Jeff, watch the videos with such intensity, and you glow a little brighter with his visionary, artistic energy. You revel in the power of finally dancing with your tribe.

Even if we're not dancing, my tribe does like to move as a group. I know I love to make my way through a bar or a mall or a theater lobby in a faggle. This is, of course, the technical term for a flock of gay men. We've all seen them-the laughing, knowing groups. I find that with mine, there is at times a sort of competition to see who can be wittiest, or quickest with the pun, or the name of the costume designer, or behind-the-scenes knowledge of how she did that costume change so quickly (Velcro, always Velcro), or even how she got into that costume at all, since, well, you know, she's put on a lot of weight since her divorce from her trainer (corsets, always corsets). Thankfully, with my faggle, the competitive aspect is not so present anymore. Everyone knows everyone else's strengths and weaknesses. And everyone knows to wait a little while for me to get the words out sometimes. It's worth the wait. But there is a tension that I hold on to. If I was just about to say that or make that same joke, I feel a little defeated at not getting it out. Comedy is about timing, they say. On the other hand, I don't have to worry at all about being my fabulous, gay self around them. Not only is it OK to know about the things we do, it is expected and treasured.

It's too bad that the ease I feel around them isn't always there for me. We all know the pressure of passing, or at least watching ourselves. Keeping tabs on what we do or say. Is it going to be acceptable to mention
my husband at this point in the conversation? Maybe I should just keep quiet about that. Don't let that guy at the gym catch you looking at his gorgeous ass. He may beat you up later in the parking lot. At the very least he may look at you with a clear sense of macho disgust. Lord knows he didn't spend two hours today doing lunges and squats with a hundred pounds on his back to give anybody anything to admire. We all know the everyday internalization that goes on.

It is with Passing Twice that all of that disappears. Even being around other stutterers at the convention, I find myself censoring a lot. Her name tag says she's from Alabama; does that mean she's a Southern
Baptist homophobe, and I shouldn't do or say anything gay? That guy next to me looks kind of like a skinhead. I should lower my voice an octave before introducing myself to him. Finally, finally, finally, when Passing Twice goes out, it really is OK to stutter and it's totally OK to be gay. The amount of internal pressure that vanishes is nothing short of a miracle. My knowledge of '40s movie stars may come into play, but if I take forever to say "Ida L-L-Lupino," it's no problem. And, of course, I don't have any worries about getting caught holding hands with Kent or kissing his neck. It makes me realize how much censoring and editing I do the rest of the time.

That constant censoring is tiring, and I don't have so much time for it anymore. I want to dance, and I want to shine. Why should I sit alone and read during a break at work? Is it really that I have nothing to say and
no one I'm interested in talking to, or is it that I've just trained myself to avoid speaking whenever possible? Why is it that in recording sessions, if I have a problem with my music, I say, "question in the woodwinds" rather than "question in the o-o-o-oboe"? Why not just go ahead and talk and stutter if I need to? Why not just dance a little with the words? Nobody likes a boring, formal predictable dancer. Why would they like a boring, predictable (fluent) speaker? Dance and music are about rhythm and repetition. I can do that. Isn't stuttering just dancing with a sound? Twirling it? Playing with its rhythm? Why sit at home on a Saturday night? Why not go out and feel a little bit of the energy of my queer tribe at the bar or the coffeehouse? Why not carry the shine with me? Why not plug into that vibe whenever I go out? Whenever I sit at home? Whenever?

So, I'm dancing. I'm stuttering. I'm shining. I'm telling my stories. It feels great.

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