Writer Between Worlds

Today is International Women’s Day. Below is a text I wrote a while ago, which sadly remains valid today and sheds some light on the place of women in society, asymmetrical relationships, gender expectations, and the thorny consent issue.

It’s my sophomore year in high school. I’m with my class on one of those overnight field trips to a small spa town up north. Everything pretty standard. There‘s a dance in the evening. I can hardly wait. I’ve always loved to dance. Dancing is my thing: therapy, wellness, self-expression all in one. Embodied bliss.

‘You have got to learn to let the man lead!’ my computer science teacher glowers and scoffs while we’re swaying to music.

He’s 40 and I’m 16. He asked me to dance and I was too polite to decline. Or too slow to invent a decent excuse. I’m always too something or other, it seems. I love this song, I didn’t want to sit it out by claiming I don’t feel like dancing, and now he’s ruining it for me. He reeks of tobacco, way too much cheap tobacco, and has bad, yellowed teeth. His left hand sits firmly on my waist and his tone is half-vexed, half-sneering. 100% demanding. He’s tall. He looks down on me as he speaks. And from the height of his experience, he’s dishing out wisdom. Paternal advice. As in paternalistic. I recoil.

What business have you got dancing with zestful 16-year-olds? I ponder. But I say nothing. I oblige. I fume in silence. Why have I accepted his invitation to dance? I chide myself instead. Was I flattered? Intimidated? Was I thinking of my grades and how much I loathed computer programming? And why, instead of registering my dismay and disgust, do I attempt a submissive smile and actually stop moving the way I want, stop following my inner beat, to become inert mass in his arms? He has sallow skin, an unkempt moustache, and probably a wife somewhere.

Play nice. Let the man lead. It’s expected. I’d rather sit than dance like this. Now I can hardly wait for the song to be over.