can soca save me?
on the fear of being free - part one
i didn’t know i couldn’t dance until they laughed at me. i was stiff, they said. i looked wrong. i didn’t like being laughed at, so i didn’t dance again after that. through the passing years, i envied all the other girls, though. the ones who could do it: dance. i envied their bodies and the fluidity with which they moved, and i envied the attention it awarded them. i envied their sense of command. i envied their attachment to themselves, because i live(d) in a state of disconnect between myself and the body i was assigned to operate. i was awkward. and clumsy. and i couldn’t handle the laughter. pathetic, a body unlovable with the audacity to be useless too. i felt like a failure. wasn’t this supposed to be some innate skill, practically a birthright, for girls like me? was i not Caribbean?
we grew up listening to the same songs. the summers overflowed with sun and soca. come night, the bashment parties slick of sweat and rum. i could sing the songs. if i couldn’t do a handstand or buss a wine, i needed to be able to hum the melodies at least. to prove that i belonged. i so, so wanted to be part of the bacchanal. but i didn’t fit in. and there was no one to teach me who could do it without laughing.
it doesn’t go away easily, the chasm between self and body. instead, it widens. i can’t tell when i’m hungry: so i forget to eat. i stare at the mirror as i scrutinize everything, sighing until i transform into something unfamiliar. i learn to dissociate when overwhelmed by my emotions; i split into secret second selves who wake up scared. i never manage to untangle shame from pleasure. i grow up in a culture ruled by sexuality, its essence and promise, and i am heavily intrigued by the spell of it that i see other women wield, but i am scared of it, too. it is not yet a magic i can harness.
eventually, i learn how. i learn how to make my body speak for me even if i cannot make it move with grace. when i get older, i drink. i realize i can let go. i go to soca parties because there is a feeling that rises inside of me when the songs come on. the more i show up, the more i belong. my hips sway nervously. i have another drink. men look at me, the bolder ones try to gently pull me to the dance floor and i laugh apologetically but i shake my head no. until there comes a night where a man comes up behind me, presses my waist to his. his face remains unseen. i step away, but weakly, and he pulls me back, guides me a little in rhythm. he’s patient. and a song comes on that i know and love, so i try to move like i have seen all the other girls do. i try my best. i don’t do it as well as the more skillful ones, but we dance. in fact we last the whole song. pressed against each other, i sense him starting to swell, and am flattered by it. but when the music ends, he disappears, reabsorbed into the crowd, gone—as it should be.
a few songs later, when another stranger invites me to dance, i am braver. drunker too, probably. i realize no one laughs at you in the club. i feel freer in the dark.
ps - thanks for reading, here’s a gift
last summer i only listened to dancehall, except for those couple of weeks where i only listened to soca. i made a massive playlist of 2024-2018 dancehall mixed with oldies, remixes, and a few other genres as a backup plan for my pool party just in case none of my friends could DJ. it’s 148 tracks altogether. i tried to arrange them to have a flow that works without shuffle because i like not having to “worry” about whatever song is up next. enjoy!