Katy Scrogin – Maybe a dance to come
Midnight, April 1, 1994: I have officially just turned eighteen. With all the wisdom of his twenty-something years, the bouncer looks at my drivers license and wishes me a happy birthday before letting me pass inside. My year-older friend follows behind, the one who’s agreed to accompany me on this rite of passage, the pilgrimage I’ve been yearning to make for as long as I can remember. We have entered the dance club, and I am fulfilled.
What was that overpowering need to dance that took up so much of my young life—that imperative thrown down by the music, that inability to sit or stand still, even in the face of superhuman effort? What let in that rare affirmation of life and self, what about all this movement swept away even the most tenacious teen anxiety or insecurity when I shut the door and played the Violent Femmes, the Beastie…
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