When existing serves as an “invitation”

One grown up Black girl remembers how she learned to shrink 

Is this an invitation? image credit: Shutterstock  

When I look back, I've always had a somatic love affair with myself. From as early as I remember, I’ve had a sensual connection to my body. I've been a dancer since the age of 5, so I was no stranger to movement and clothing that clung to my body. You can find old pictures of me, circa 1995, 6 years old, with a crop top on and a hand my hip. Some would call it fast with no real evidence to support the allegation. Just a shameless little Black girl who liked the way her body looked and moved. 

Women spend half of our lives changing who we are because someone somewhere might take it as an invitation. I learned to lower my gaze because my eyes were an invitation. I learned to stiffen my body because my movement was an invitation. I learned to change the way I dressed because my skin was an invitation

I remember being a lover of all dances that rolled, shook and dropped. As wide as a toothpick, I didn't let it stop me from shaking the little I had. My great-grandmother was my biggest fan. She would turn on music, clap, chuckle and have me show my moves to her friends at the senior center. Sometimes when I danced, they would give me dollars. It wasn't until adulthood I reflected on that experience and jokingly thought dancing for dollars at a senior center could have sent me on a different path. 

My recollection of dancing at the senior center contained pure and innocent joy. Older women clapping and smiling, likely recalling a time when they could move like that. Shaking their shoulders from their seats, shouting, "Go head shuga!" I want to be that type of elder. An elder who creates safe spaces for girls to be, as big, as wild and as free as they want to be before society and life tries to snatch it out of them. 

I’m glad I had that space. My dad, on the other hand, despised seeing me dance like that. At one point, he forbade me from dancing. What I saw as innocent fun, he saw as an invitation. 

Women spend half of our lives changing who we are because someone somewhere might take it as an invitation. I learned to lower my gaze because my eyes were an invitation. I learned to stiffen my body because my movement was an invitation. I learned to change the way I dressed because my skin was an invitation. I would argue the way I stared, moved or dressed belonged to me before I even considered male interest. 

 In high school, crop tops, halters, tight pants and short shorts were my garments of choice. My prom dress had a neckline that reached below my navel and an almost invisible back. Modesty hadn't made its way into my vocabulary yet. 

That changed when I found the person that would become my husband. He would “jokingly” make comments about covering often enough to alert me that it was a problem for him. I knew there were a few things about myself that garnered attention from men: my eyes, the way I dressed, and the way I danced. Even though none of those things were cultivated for the male gaze, I knew if I wanted to reduce the attention, I would have to tone it all down. Maintaining these parts of myself would not make the relationship any easier. In silent concession, my dresses got longer and looser. I avoided eye contact with men. I virtually stopped dancing cold turkey.  

Now divorced, I’ve had the pleasure to reclaim those parts of myself in recent years, with some plunging necklines or backless dresses, steady eye contact during soul-nourishing conversations with male acquaintances and sultry but innocent dances on the social dance floor. I am slowly regathering pieces of me I left at the threshold of a relationship. It feels good to remember myself. I still love a flowing dress. However, my autonomy – choosing how and with whom I dance – and my decisions aren’t rooted in shrinking anymore. And I love that for me.