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Today I tweaked my back attempting to twerk. Yup. Twerking, come to find, is super hard. I don’t know about, but I’m feeling 32.  Here, you try. It’s really hard:

I’m not going to post any video of HP and I learning to twerk, but we looked like “crazy dinosaurs,” according to Daughter One.

Yesterday I was feeling revolutionary, and today I’ve been thinking of how complacent I’ve been in current events. I post stuff on Facebook, sign petitions online, vote, and consider my civic duty done.  Because the work week is exhausting, it seems in the best interests of special interests to keep us hustlin’. Working for a living takes the activism right out of us, unless it is our whole job, and God Bless Activists.

What’s great about art, and dance especially, is that it is its own kind of reaction. You know what we do in the face of hard times and uncertainty? What we’ve always done? Art. And especially, we wrangle up the tunes and dance.

Check this out:

Before the Shimmy, even, there was the toddle:

“Dancing began to actively involve the upper body for the first time as women began shaking their torsos in the Shimmy. Young people took to throwing their arms and legs in the air with reckless abandon and hopping or “toddling” every step in the Foxtrot, and soon every collegiate was doing a new dance; the Toddle.”

Now I’m going to shout at every student who tells me feminism is no longer necessary that WE DID NOT START MOVING OUR TORSOS AROUND UNTIL THE 1920s! Wrap your brain around that.

Each hip shake is its own revolution.

Here’s a poem about that:

The Shimmy

Meet me at the dancehall,                                                                                            the roadhouse, or speakeasy, near to broke and all we can do now is dance.

Let’s foxtrot all over this mortgage and jitterbug up on the leaky roof until sunrise.

Better yet, let’s shimmy right over our jobs,                                                                          let the dance be our labor,                                                                                               come toddle over the groove because it is ours.

These torsos can shake now.

The night belongs to us,

come,

let’s quickstep on the rails of these coal cars                                                                       and Charleston until the sun rises over poisoned rivers,                                                    Our shoes will grow holes,

our blisters might bleed,                                                                                               but we won’t stop the jive,

no,

not until we see daybreak                                                                                           and find a way to twerk it out.

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How often do you dance? Less than needed, if you are anything like me.  We have friends coming over tonight! We are not hermits! Happy Saturday, poemcats.

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