I Feel God Everywhere in This Room
It’s grungy and vintage like an old pair of boots that had a lot of life in them and smell slightly of sock sweat.
I walk up the stairs and stand nervously in the corner, waiting for my friend to arrive. I scan the room, witnessing the other students waiting for a queer country western line dancing class presented by STUD COUNTRY. This is where you learn how to dance in daylight before getting crunk on the dance floor at night. They gays got it right.
It feels like the United Nations of queer people showing up to the dance floor, and what I mean by that is that it feels safe—safe to be fully expressed in whatever flavor God made you.
A Latina woman with pink cowboy boots, a mini skirt, and a T-shirt that said, “I love Latinas,” brought her flavor to the choreography and was having the time of her life. An older white man with a long grey ponytail boogied through every grapevine and didn’t miss a step. An Asian man missed every step yet had the time of his life. Multiple women were blissfully free dancing with no bras on.
Kiera, our instructor, gave me pause. They wore cut-off jean shorts, a green t-shirt, a STUD COUNTRY baseball cap, and cowboy boots. What stood out was their unshaven legs and hirsutism-grown chin hair like a goatee. They were free. Holding feminine energy with a touch of masculinity. At first, I winced at their chin hair, immediately recognizing judgment as I tend to gasp if one black chin hair is coming in hot on my own chin and no one tells me. I settle into my discomfort and pay attention to how well she easily holds the class's attention and instructs us. I get out of my head and into my body, which is a bit of a struggle today.
I’m coming off 10 days laid up in my apartment, getting over the worst case of food poisoning I’ve ever encountered. The best part is that I gave it to myself. I reached an upper limit in feeling sustainably fantastic and wacked myself down to a manageable level by eating a piece of cooked salmon that was sitting on my stove for six hours. I was also subconsciously putting off a difficult conversation with a family member, asking for space in our relationship, and this accident was perfect timing to be unavailable for that conversation.
Prior to dance class, I had that uncomfortable conversation and began going into withdrawal from being their emotional caregiver. I grieved the many years of self-abandonment and fantasy I projected upon this person. So it didn't come easily when it came time to show up for myself in my cowgirl boots and learn how to grapevine and two-step. But I had FUN. Towards the end, I needed to take a break. I decided to sit on the outskirts of the room and be an audience member as I watched each person embrace the steps as they danced to Drunk (And I Don’t Wanna Go Home) by Elle King and Miranda Lambert. A huge toothy grin came across my face, and emotion entered my chest and throat.
“I feel God everywhere in this room.”
A diverse bouquet of beautiful flowers poses as human beings side by side, learning how to line dance and having some fun on a Sunday. This is taking place in a country where people are trying to erase the expression of this unapologetic freedom.
We chose joy anyway.
The invitation asks, Where am I not allowing myself to be free, as I project judgment onto another person with feminine attributes who decides to let her facial hair run free?
God doesn’t care about my surface-level comforts. She wants me to heal my shit so I can recognize the bouquet of beautiful flowers in front of me. At least that is what I am choosing to believe today.
I hope to see you on the dance floor one day, dear reader. Maybe there, we’ll both be able to feel God together.