I sat in the auditorium waiting for my turn. Each camper stood, said his or her name and something he or she enjoyed doing, and sat back down. It was simple, and by the end of the exercise we knew at least a little bit about every other kid. As the girl next to me sat down, I stood up and told every other nine-year-old at Camp Rae my name. Next I told them the only thing I enjoyed doing, the only thing I was actually good at, and frankly the only thing I didn’t quit within a week of starting: Irish dance.
“Did he say he likes ‘dancing?’ Dancing is for girls!” one of the boys in the row behind me said. When the gale of snickering died down, I sat in my seat with a lump in my throat, wishing that I was anywhere but that auditorium.
I had never thought of Irish dancing as bearing any kind of a stigma, but I knew that a gymnasium full of nine-year-olds couldn’t be wrong. From that moment on, I resolved to keep my love of Irish dancing a secret.
This concealment proved highly difficult during my grade and high school years, especially because I frequently missed school for days at a time when I traveled to Ireland for competitions. I felt I had to lie to teachers about why I was missing school, lie to friends about why I couldn’t go out, and lie to everyone about why I was on crutches so often. An intricate web of dishonesty shrouded what I still considered my darkest secret. I felt like Bruce Wayne.
I don’t remember ever being as embarrassed as I was that morning at Camp Rae, and yet I never considered quitting dance a viable option. I still enjoyed doing it. My fear that my friends would find out my terrible secret was never as strong as my love for Irish dance.
I like the way that dancing makes me feel, and I have never felt anything quite like the satisfaction that I get at the end of a competition. My commitment to and love for the sport have allowed me to keep dancing despite the trouble of lying to my friends and constant worry that one day I would be revealed. I could leave my school and go to dance class to work out my frustration about not being able to tell anyone. Just hearing the music made everything worth it.
When I got to Georgetown, I decided I would no longer actively lie to people about my dancing. I’d love to say it was because I had become a more mature and self-confident person, but I did it mainly because I didn’t want my new roommate and friends thinking I was going to Baltimore every Monday for drug deals. Also, because some of my friends from dancing were students at Georgetown, I had no choice but to come out as an Irish dancer. I certainly wouldn’t go out of my way to tell people, but I would at least stop lying when asked.
This policy was going pretty well for me until last year at the crew team’s annual talent show in McNeir Auditorium. As I was walking off stage following our pitiful unisuit-clad group rendition of Thriller, I was called out by the MC, who insisted that I come back on stage and demonstrate my Irish dancing abilities. Panic-stricken, I felt the eerily familiar “get me out of this auditorium” feeling creeping over me. I faced the choice of either sitting back down red-faced as I had done ten years earlier, or getting back on stage and dancing for my teammates. I danced. Now, I don’t remember the crowd’s reaction when I performed in kindergarten—before Camp Rae, before I realized that dancing wasn’t cool—but I’m fairly sure it was not as gratifying as it was walking off the McNeir stage for the second time that night. I was reminded the curative nature of dancing and of exactly why I didn’t quit in the wake of the laughter all those years ago.
My struggle with my Irish dancing secret reached its climax earlier this semester in my Irish History course. We were told on the first day to go around and say our name, and something interesting about ourselves. To be honest, there’s nothing else that interesting about me, so I was stuck. When it was my turn, I told everyone my name. I took a deep breath, and as the words came out, I waited for the crushing giggles. There were none. There were no visible reactions at all, in fact. With a sigh of relief, I felt my decade-long burden slide from my shoulders.
Irish dance has been such an integral part of my life, and I’m glad I can celebrate it alongside the second most important thing in my life: Georgetown. It’s disappointing that I can no longer exercise my creativity by constantly. But overall, the benefits of my exposed dancing career outweigh the cons. I guess every superhero has to hang up his mask eventually.
