Dance is like shedding skin. I am slowly getting to know myself, really becoming aware of my body for the first time. I enjoy pushing myself, I enjoy the repetitiveness, I even enjoy the pain that follows practice. I feel safe, I feel at home, I feel happy. I remember watching dancers on TV when I was younger, admiring their strength, their stamina, their sensuality. Wishing, wanting it so desperately, but too afraid to ask. It was out of the question, my parents would never pay for lessons. Boys don’t dance and the ones who do…well they’re different in the worst possible way. Girly, effeminate, soft, fruity, flaming, faggy, gay. Boys shouldn’t appreciate beauty, it’s better, so much safer to worship mud and dirt, to graze your elbows and knees, to only use your body for running and climbing. Bold, brash and confident. Don’t think before you act, just do it. Being a boy should be automatic like breathing, but I had to think about it. I had to create this other persona, this façade to hide behind. Neutral, somewhere safe in the middle. A little too nice, a little too quiet, but never obvious. If you can’t be aggressive, and God knows I tried, the second best thing is to become invisible, to cease being a person. And then you can start erasing your body. You’ll take up even less space. You’re no fun to mess with because you’re too weak to fight back. The only person who won’t leave you alone is dad, but he can’t hurt you any more because you’ve stopped feeling. You don’t feel sad, you don’t feel happy, you’re not even in the room while it’s happening. And then one day it stops. You’re safe, that’s what they keep telling you, over and over. You have to re-learn everything, replace your fucked-up dictionary, become a boy, a person again. But I am out of control, suddenly aggressive, so confused, who am I really? Am I turning into him? Everything is turmoil, pitch-black angry chaos. Acting out, they call it. Like a pat on the head. This is normal, this is recovery. A return to normalcy, yet I feel anything but normal. I’m fighting myself, fighting my body, I want out. Why is every attempt unsuccessful, what am I doing wrong? Do I want to live after all? I’m not used to feeling, now I’m feeling too much, I’m overwhelmed, please make it stop. There’s no progress, nothing visible to the eye, nothing tangible, I’m not getting well fast enough. I read somewhere that the mind chooses to forget, but the body always remembers. It’s a painful reminder. How can I learn to like myself, to accept my body and its history, the fact that I’m turning into a man? Can I get to know him, little by little? Can I write it out, can I talk about it? Is it safe to explore, to come out of hiding, can I dance now?
I don't think anyone can illustrate dance like Jakob Karr.
