Throwback Edition: Sexual Revolution at the Teen Club
Plus, your children can handle dangerous ideas, a futuristic poem, and Florence Pugh cooking
My Dearest Readers,
I’ve been thinking about my body quite often lately, probably because I am demanding more of it than I have in recent times. I grew up as a dancer, meaning I was hyper-aware of my physical body throughout my youth. Its shape, its weight, and its function were all carefully measured and grossly underappreciated. When I look in the mirror today, I do not make cruel remarks about my body the way I used to. Instead, I relish in its perfection—round hips, strong legs, cute little ankles. As I’ve thrown my body into surfing more consistently in the past few weeks, I’m amazed at all it can do. It’s strength and elasticity but also the way it communicates with me. This morning I was in the water getting beat by the ocean, turtle rolling over and over, unable to make it past the white water after catching a wave, and feeling deeply fatigued after just 30 minutes. Before I could overthink it, my body spoke louder than my ego—get out, this is too much and you need a break. This made sense, especially after yesterday, so I obliged. Out of the water we went.
Today’s throwback edition is one of my all-time favorites; an homage to my body and the first time it made me feel powerful. For those of you who are new here, I send out these throwback editions once a month—essays published a year ago or more that deserve a second look. If you enjoy today’s edition, please consider sharing it or opting for a paid subscription so that I can keep this thing going.
I’ll be back in your inbox next week with a new edition. Until then, take a stroll outside and read a poem aloud!
A Note From the Editor
The year was 2004 and Lil Jon and the East Side Boyz had a message for us, blasting through the oversized speakers at the Civic Center: Get low, get low, get low, get low. I obliged, moving my hips to the commands of the song, my best friend by my side. It was my first time at the makeshift teen club, a monthly Friday night occurrence when some unbeknownst organizing force would charge local teenagers $5 for the chance to grind on each other in a large, dimmed gym without too many adults around. My friend wore a half top and tiny shorts, carefully disguised under baggy sweatpants and a teeshirt that were promptly peeled off the moment her grandfather pulled away from the curb, promising to pick us up at 9 pm sharp. I was less savvy, unsure of what the expect as a first-timer. I wore the most provocative piece of clothing I owned at 12 years old, a light purple camisole—my pajama top—with flared blue jeans.
I soon discovered my dorky outfit didn’t matter, for I was a young woman who knew how to move. My friend gave me the eyes, and no sooner did I feel a hesitant tap on my shoulder. A boy, small, white, around my age, asked if I wanted to dance. I did. Did I know how to dance like this? Not exactly. I hadn’t tried it before, but some animal instinct kicked in. I turned around, my back facing his front, and placed his hands on my hips expertly, as though I did this all the time. Our bodies melded to one another as I began to move to the beat, my front facing my friend, who was similarly engaged with a boy behind her.
I was utterly lost in it the moment I started—knees bent, back arched, fingers weaved together with the boy behind me, in the air and on my hips and near my ribs. I was in charge, the boy took my commands. His body had its own story to tell, one of a desire I didn’t yet understand, and I could feel the proof pressing against my back. But it didn’t matter what he wanted, it wasn’t even on my radar. All that existed was the sweat coating my skin, the quickening of my heartbeat, the air in my lungs, the way the beat pulsed through every cell in my body, telling me what to do and how to move.
Power. It was my first taste of the pure, unbridled power of my body, commanding the attention of anyone who might look my way, casting a spell on this stranger behind me with its black magic. My beautiful, mysterious body.
My body.
We went on like that, locked together, song after song after song. It would be my first of many teen club dances, Friday nights spend in those holy, darkened rooms where I was granted permission to discover my power. My shirts got shorter and so did my shorts until my outfits showed more skin than they covered. I loved it, the way my bony knees looked in those tiny shorts, the way boys would line up, all waiting for the chance to dance with me, or with a friend in my circle of girls. I loved the choices—we could dance for one song or five, I decided. I could dance with the coolest, most handsome boy or with the shortest, most pockmarked one or with my girlfriends, tantalizing onlookers, rolling our bodies down towards the floor. I chose them all, one after the other. I discovered the alchemy of a woman’s body, of my body. One part skin, one part hair, one part sweat, adorned with perfect curvatures, secret spots that dampened and begged to be acknowledged.
Better still, I was safe, in this magnificent body, my body, and in this darkened room. I was not a slut or a harlot or a fast girl; I was a goddess who never apologized. Lucky was the man or woman who got to lay their hands on me, even only for a song or two. Lucky was the soul who got to breathe in my air or breath on my neck. In this safe space, I learned I never needed to apologize for my body.
My body.
Nor did I need to hide it away or be afraid of it or be fearful of what others thought of it or what they might want to do to it. For if anyone wanted my body, if they wanted to harm it or abuse it or say things on the street in passing to make me feel fear over what they would do to me, given the chance, I knew it was only because they wished they had been born in this glorious vessel. I would not cower from them, or punish myself to feed their egos, so carelessly constructed to mask their deep-seated fear. And they had, they have, every reason to be afraid of me, afraid of my body, for it is the single most divine specimen to walk this Earth. My body can command the attention of any room, can cause a war or a car crash from rubbernecking, can produce another human heartbeat, can reach a state of pleasure over and over again with no earthy limit.
My body, my body, is a holy place. A celestial being.
If there is a war waged on my body, it is only because the aggressor knows all that my body can do, the aggressor wants to commodify my untarnished parts to inflate their sad sense of false power. If my body is characterized as overly complicated, impossible to please, it is only because my lover is too simple of mind, unable to understand my complexities, the treasure chests of pleasure I am able to unlock. If my body is used as a political weapon, if the parts under my shirt and under my skirt made me less of a human being in the eyes of the law, justified by an interpretation of an outdated, nonsensical text that was written alongside the proclamation that human beings should be relegated to three-fifths of a whole person because of their skin color, then I will wear my shortest shorts and wiggle my perfect hips and remind every single person who tries to tell me otherwise that this is my body. My body. And you will never tell me what I can and cannot do with it.
Cheers, my dears, and may you always remember no matter what the law says, your body belongs to you and only you. No one can tell you what to do with it; no bullshit ruling can take away your power.
Three Pieces of Content Worth Consuming
Your Kids Can Handle Dangerous Ideas. I walked past a mother and son duo at a reproductive rights march on Monday. The boy, 7 years old or so, asked why so many women were carrying hangers, and the mother went on to explain the unsafe method of aborting babies women used to use before having safe and legal access to abortion. I was moved by the sense of respect this woman seemed to have while communicating with her young son, speaking to him like an adult but with a sense of gentle patience and kindness. This piece is not about abortion, but its sentiments remind me of that woman from the march, and I agree with them wholeheartedly. The notion that was can protect our children from unsavory concepts and realities is delusional and probably more damaging than good.
Sci-Fi, a Poem by Tracey K. Smith. The way in which poets are able to articulate a complex idea and convey an entire feeling in so few lines never ceases to amaze me. This one felt fitting today. I appreciated how the author turned to the notion of sci-fi as we typically consume it on its head; not as a dystopian, war-torn future, but as a place that is gentler than the present.
Italy Court Rules Children Should Be Given Surnames of Both Parents. And finally, a quickie to remind you that there are so many other ways to live. I read this one a few weeks back and felt delighted at the notion of children coming into the world in a less traditional, more modern manner.
Perhaps You Should… Watch Florence Pugh Cook
I’m a major Florence Pugh fan, and Florence Pugh is a major food fan (as am I). Watching her cook is almost as hypnotizing as watching her eat—something I never thought I would say, ever.
**Bonus Content** (English to Non-English Speakers)
I saw this video years ago but forgot about it until I stumbled across it again this week. What a strange delight!
Also, this song is an ode to the teen club, this outfit via my most severe celebrity crush, this combo, this sentiment, and this reminder.
A Quote From A Book You Should Read:
“The problem with the idea that history repeats itself is that when it isn’t making us wiser it’s making us complacent.”
-Asymmetry by Lisa Halliday
This newsletter is best served with a side of conversation, so drop your opinions, reflections, and thoughts in the comments below and let’s get to talking.
Or, share the most thought-provoking piece from today’s edition with someone you love, then call them up to discuss, debate, and percolate. As a wise woman once said, “Great minds discuss ideas.