I walked towards them with the shimmy, and I looked them in the eyes with friendly smile, and I heard them.
After a while, I told them to shut the fuck up.
They yelled back at me, I yelled back at them in a playful but hopefully serious tone.
I kept on moving, running and dancing on the lawn.
I was so conscious of my black spaghetti-strap top which was low-cut with lace on the fringe of the breasts area.
The top was 9 years old. I bought it at banana-republic when I was 21. A strap top very likely made in a sweatshop.
I kept on dancing.
And I kept hearing them.
During that time I felt that all the insults were directing towards me, because I was the one wearing the less with the low-cut strap top and the tight leggings. And I couldn’t really catch all the words.
If I did I probably wouldn’t be able to keep on dancing.
I gradually moved away from them to the other side of the stairs, near the fringe of the lawn on the south, and started spinning.
I probably span at least 50 turns.
I kept on hearing them.
And I kept on spinning.
There was a slight height difference on the lawn.
Everything blurred while one person span so fast.
All turned slightly white and green.
I stopped, and fell.
I straightened my legs; I moved in a relatively straight line.
I saw my friend sitting on the stairs, I gave her a kiss.
The move was like this, push the right shoulder, push the left shoulder, give her a kiss, hands up to the sky.
I walked towards her, I landed my kisses on her.
I landed my kisses on the foundations of the stairs. I gave the air kisses to others.
And the guy said “Sorry I didn’t know what you were doing.”
We had a fist bump.
I danced towards the tree on the lawn that was installed for grasslands.
I heard the other guy (sounded a lot younger) kept yelling: Take off your top, the guys are watching.
I landed my kisses on the leaves.
I lied down on the grasslands.
There were countless bugs on each grass, black bug on the tip of the grass.
I moved on.
Somehow the noise disappeared.
I didn’t know when.
Clinton’s sounds was near me now.
I had to find a place that’s safe both for me and the grass to keep on proceeding.
It’s not a march, it’s not real nature, it’s only fabricated, but the grasses were real.
I felt that there was an animal growing.
The lens hurt sometimes.
I keep on hearing the yelling from that young boy.
Nothing really changes for me.
I wonder if I should have sat down next to them, to be braver, instead of tuning them out.
I was trying to keep on performing, I guess.
Strangely, they were the most devoted audience I could have.
And the worst ones.
I still feel hurt.
I wonder if there are other choices to make.
This is so much of a “blaming the victim” reaction, from me, blaming myself.
I felt that I should really gave myself a big hug for keep on performing and found the strength from the surroundings, from those who supported, and from that fabricated nature, and from my fellow performers.
But now I was reading the sort of feminist body art and wondered if I wasn’t brave enough.
This is not right.
This is too wrong.
Strangely, I knew (?) that I was brave.
And strangely, I knew that I was brave in the consistency in performance (as everyone else did).
It’s gonna take a while for me to process the whole thing. Maybe a very long while.
And it’s really hard to allow oneself to be vulnerable.