Newspaper Offices are for Dancing
until the building closes
While I’ve danced in many studios in many cities, I fondly recall belly dancing in the office of my college newspaper with my friends. I attended a tiny liberal arts college (<500 students) located in a tiny village (<4000 residents) in the midwest. The newspaper office was located in the basement of the prettiest building on campus and I, as one of its editors, was given a key for a term. Most of the time I used my key, it was for newspaper business that we believed was important. But, in the weeks preceding a big party on campus, my belly dancer friends and I created and rehearsed choreography to Shakira’s song “Ojos Asi” in my office.
After the other offices in the building emptied and classes were over for the day, I would make sure my friends could get in the building, through the side green door rather than the building’s grand front entrance. We would blast music from the school’s Mac that I used to lay-out the paper (this poor old Mac wasn’t really able to blast, but made it possible to hear the song from across the room). We’d scoot the various worn pieces of furniture—chairs, small sofa, table—out of the way, tie on our hip scarves, and take off our socks. After traveling across the room in various formations, circles and lines, with the song on repeat, the bottoms of our feet would turn black. The weather was warm before the party, so our toes weren’t shocked, but pleasantly cooled.
At first, we played around with movement phrases, suggesting shimmies or snake arms, and performing for each other. We talked through what we liked, what we didn’t like, how to transition, and settled on choreography together. After that, our time in the newspaper office became running and rerunning that choreography. I remember my favorite snack during breaks was spicy sweet chili doritos, and that other students kept cutting the cord of the vending machine just outside my office in protest of the Coca-Cola company’s actions. My dancers and I had to remember to bring our snacks in with us.
We had met in off-campus belly dance classes, outside the college’s dance department, with the village’s troupe. After performing with the troupe, we decided to create a new piece to perform at a college party that also featured drag acts, nudity, and a lot of alcohol. And while I can recall the high of the performance, which only lasted a few minutes, I more fondly remember the many hours rehearsing: the crafting of our art more than its finished product.
But nostalgia is a trap, especially in this case. After I graduated, the grandest building on campus ended up shuttered and destroyed. It still needs a lot of restoration and the newspaper office is no longer in the building. No classes are held there. You can’t go home again. But I have music and pictures. The ghosts of muscle memory for the choreography still exist. I carry this hauntology from new home to next home; I carry parts of the dance in my body.