The Dancing Queen

“Flamer.” “Fag.” “Gay.”

Such were the eloquent descriptions used by the skater kids next to me. Their buttcheeks peeped over the edges of their sagging jeans like pumpkins on a fencepost. Skateboards in one hand, iPhones in the other, they clicked and saved the spectacle before them to “My Pictures.”

It was a beautiful evening in Huntington Beach. Down at the pier, a crisp autumn wind slithered through the palm trees as a farmer’s market bustled below. The ocean shimmered in the fading sun. Lovers ambled lazily along the shoreline, volleyball players dove in the sand.

And then there was this guy: a complete disruption to the beach’s aesthetics. He looked to be about fifteen or sixteen years old and wore a denim hat, denim shorts, long-sleeved blue sweater, white socks rolled down around his ankles and black slip-ons that looked like inbred Vans. Nothing too shocking, I suppose—in a touristy city, you expect to run into a fashion disaster every block or so. But you don’t expect them to be dancing.

His stage? First, imagine a pier jutting out into the ocean. Coming inland you have the beach and sidewalk. To the right of the pier, the ground slopes slightly upward onto a grassy hill followed by stadium-style concrete benches. From the grass there are two long benches, a concrete walkway that extends back for about twenty feet, and then five more benches. It was on the concrete walkway that this boy performed. Muffled giggles, wide eyes and pointing fingers surrounded him on the benches both above and below him, but he seemed too absorbed in whatever he was listening to (Whitney Houston?) to care.

This fellow wasn’t just dancing. He looked like he was auditioning for the latest Beyonce video. Hips shaking here, booty moving there, head bobbing everywhere. With each cartwheel his white, fleshy stomach flubbered out of his shirt. His favorite move was strutting (and I mean strutting…Naomi Campbell style) for about twenty feet and then shooting both arms high into the air, feet hip-width apart, like he had just won American Idol. Every three minutes or so he would change/repeat the song on his iPod, adjust his earbuds and start the process all over again.

Initially, I thought he was doing this just for attention—a fair assumption given the circumstances. But I questioned that as I continued to watch/gawk at him. He danced with absolutely no inhibitions whatsoever and never once acknowledged his audience. If I've ever seen anybody in "their own little world" or "marching to the beat of a different drummer" it was him. Could it be that he was dancing simply because it made him happy? Sure, he was in view of hundreds of passers-by, but maybe that didn’t matter to him. Maybe the reason he was dancing in that area was because it was beautiful. If so, he couldn’t have chosen a better location in all of America. With the rest of the country washing their faces and brushing their teeth in the dark, he was dancing to the last blazing minutes of the sun’s workday. Each thrusting hip and shimmy seemed to say “Well, Sun, thanks for the gorgeous day! Your rising and setting were first class! I can't wait to see you tomorrow! Sleep tight!"

Was he homosexual? I’d say there’s a 95% chance yes. But anyone who looked at him and saw just a "fag" missed the better story (see previous post). How much better off would the world be if we all had the courage to do what made us happy despite popular opinion? There is no doubt in my mind that Mr. Flamer, alone in his joy though he was, was ten times happier than the scuzzy skater kids who were mocking him. They who were trying so painfully hard to be cool with their unkempt hair, name-brand clothes, and foul language, while he found satisfaction in merely being who he was and doing what he loved.

I’ll never know what purpose (public attention? personal enjoyment?) this unnamed flailing enigma was dancing for. It doesn’t matter. As I left the pier that evening, I glanced back for one last look at him. He was smiling.

And so was I.