The first time I danced was with my father. I plucked my bare feet onto his work boots, to my mother’s distress, and let his rubber soles guide me into a groove. Hand in hand, we spun through the kitchen as Al Green’s Love and Happiness christened my rhythm’s baptism.
The second time I danced was with myself – and it would be my last. I wrapped my arms around the fleshy part of my waist as Seal’s Kiss from a Rose played from the Batman Forever CD in my stereo. Alone in my room, I was OK with the mirror seeing every part of me. I danced like Shirley Temple with Buddy Ebsen. Like my father guided me. The only thing that could have broken my rhythm did. My stepmother filled the doorway, barefoot except for a roach she had stepped on.
“Why…
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