Motion of emotion

At the VM session at the Conference they held an open-mic after informal readings of the monologues. I doubted anyone would stand, yet the miracle of silence being bolding torn asunder, even among hundreds of strangers, prevailed again. Woman after woman shared their “vagina’s story” in Spanish or English.

One woman spoke in monotone pain about being raped at five, at eight, at fourteen, at twenty, as she fled from refugee camp to refugee camp. We gave her a standing ovation. Maybe trite, but we didn’t know how else to show our solidarity.

This woman was also the first to start dancing that night, at the closing party that Will snuck me into. I danced near her till we were dripping sweat, moving to the music as though with endless energy, as though women weren’t being raped that very minute all over the world as she was, again, and again, and again.

We danced because our hearts were sore, but also because we owed it to them, we owed it to ourselves, to gyrate our curves, to pop our hips, to enjoy and own the very sexuality that is under attack. We weren’t dancing for anyone else, we were dancing with our sisters, we were the motion of emotion.

Will kept asking me, “are you networking? Who have you met”” But I didn’t work this opportunity, of rubbing shoulders with the worlds foremost gender and AIDS activists or taking advantage of an open bar. Instead, I learned an invaluable lesson from this woman. I am proud to have chosen instead to dance. And I am glad to have lived this moment with her, whether she was aware what it meant to me or not, to see what survival can look like. Because if we don’t celebrate side by side, with our remaining vitality, as well as fight these uphill battles, how the hell do we keep at it our whole lives long?