Solid Gold dancer—that’s what I dreamed I’d grow up to be. At four years old, I understood little about trends, TV shows, and dancing.
I don’t even remember what the premise of Solid Gold was, only that a group of young women danced around on stage wearing glittery gold costumes and high heels to match. Solid Gold embraced the last dying breaths of disco, then tried to acclimate to early Eighties’ pop—I don’t remember watching it much by the time I entered first grade. Either it was cancelled, moved to an unsightly timeslot, or my dance fix was fulfilled by the burgeoning MTV, routines that played over and over again, so much so that I could learn the steps and dance along with Madonna on “Lucky Star,” or Pat Benatar on “Love is a Battlefield,” or Toni Basil on “Mickey.”
Even at four years old, I declared my Miss America talent as dancing, even though the few dancers never won, only the pianists and singers. I always wondered what would have become of me had my mother enrolled me in dance class.
Dance was not a viable career choice in my household—a hobby, yes, but one had to pick a more practical, nine-to-five job, a college-degree sort that was stable, common, and generic. My sister, who was four years older than me, and I spent most of our childhood devoid of extracurricular activities, although she signed up for every talent show. We were homebodies, to put it mildly.
I joined my high school dance team. I ignored its Mean Girls-ness, there for the dancing, not the socializing. As a perfectionist, I took it seriously, never wanting to make a mistake. My coach said I was the only one who practiced at home as I asked her to dub each new song for me. MTV remained my closest dance ally—I copied every step of “Beat It,” even managed the fast-paced choreography of “If,” and taught my dance team how to Vogue. (Thanks to my mom’s expert sewing skills, my Barbies had a replica of Paula Abdul’s “Cold Hearted” outfit—as well as a whole wardrobe of Dirty Dancing apparel). When I graduated high school, that was essentially the end of my dance career.
I took a few dance classes as an adult: in college a friend convinced me to learn how to belly dance, neighborhood moms convinced my husband to take me to ballroom lessons (which he said he would never do again), and I became a zombie and danced through downtown streets to “Thriller.”
As an introvert, music sets me free. I cannot not dance with the vacuum as I clean with the stereo blaring. I don’t understand how people singing karaoke can stand so rigidly behind the microphone as they read the words on the screen—I dance around and move with the beat. At my stand-up desk in my office at home, I’m jiving with my Eighties or Nineties playlists. At stores I sing and find myself walking to the beat of whatever song is playing. I still do Prince’s “2 thousand zero zero” hand moves and twirl to every Stevie Nicks song.
Dance is one of those careers I sometimes dream about when I fall asleep. What my life would look like had I become a professional dancer—maybe contemporary or jazz or ballroom. Television is the only means with which to live my dream.
Dance Moms induced cringing, yet I loved watching the routines. When I felt stupider after watching it, I stopped (I also ditched Teen Mom and Sister Wives, finding better ways to spend my time). I adored Dancing with the Stars and selected a song for each style of dance: Three Days Grace’s “Never Too Late” for my freestyle with all the lifts I wanted and Thirty Seconds to Mars’ “The Kill” for paso doble. I stopped watching that when they fired Tom Bergeron. I couldn’t wait for the new season of Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team, awed by the cult-like behavior of the wannabe dancers, cringing at the archaic beliefs, yet loving the routines. World of Dance was more about Jennifer Lopez than anything else, making sure every two seconds the camera cut to her (I never want to hear the word goosies again). No show could top the perfection that was So You Think You Can Dance.
In those early days of So You Think You Can Dance, it was all about the dance. Sob stories were kept to a minimum, each audition show was packed with hopeful dancers, and even the judges—after getting their proper introductions—were second behind all that dancing. Had I been born about ten years later and had any sort of dance training, I imagine I would have dreamed about becoming a contestant. The routines were that good: beautiful, breathtaking, artsy, inspiring, uplifting, empowering. My favorite remained the fast-paced, high-lift disco routines.
When my son was in kindergarten, he loved the So You Think You Can Dance intro, mimicking the echoing effect. We both adored Cat Deeley—I not only delighted in her name but envied her Barbie hair. She is the only person on earth who looks good in potato sack dresses. Her delightful energy added to the positivity the entire show seemed to embrace. Yes, dancers were ruthlessly eliminated, some of them had even outstayed their welcome. Yet the show was about a bigger purpose than any one contestant—to celebrate dance. Jeff Probst, please close your ears, but in those early days of So You Think You Can Dance, it edged out Survivor as my favorite show.
Then dance lost its popularity. Ratings declined. It became American Idol, showing only three auditions in twenty minutes, focusing more on the sob stories that overshadowed the dance. Mary Murphy disappeared, breaking my heart, because I adored her critiques, her energy, and most of all her Hot Tamale Train. Celebrity judges with little dance knowledge began filling the panel—I have nothing against Leah Remini, but really, a dance judge? Then the year with only a children’s version I didn’t watch at all. And then it came back, was disappointing, and then vanished again.
Shortly after seven o’clock on Monday night in my central time zone, I plopped on the couch for my comfy couch time, my end of the day routine of sitting in front of the TV. Since the writers’ strike and then the actors’ strike, I had been struggling to find stuff to watch for months. I had taken to rewatching LA Law now that Hulu had released the whole series. I had already reached Season 7, which held little interest for me since Kuzak and Abby and Victor and even Grace had left. I turned to the guide to make sure Survivor was scheduled to record and as I did so, So You Think You Can Dance appeared slotted for eight o’clock. I squealed with delight, then berated myself for my offline lifestyle.
I use the internet to research…and well, that’s about it. Other than my YouTube channel, I am not on social media. I stopped clicking on news stories when all that popped up were those about norovirus (one of my biggest fears), cancer (another of my biggest fears), and some killer fungus straight out of The Last of Us. Celebrity gossip makes me stupider, so I care not what Very Important People are up to. I stay as far away from politics as possible since it induces panic that our world is just a couple steps away from turning into Gilead or 1984. The internet was making me depressed, paranoid, and destroyed all creativity and productivity. My online time became very purposeful: find out where I had seen that lawyer on LA Law before, verify details in movies like Oppenheimer and Napoleon, and check my Target Circle for deals. I might order some decorative push pins from Amazon, check the weather forecast to plan tomorrow’s clothes, and when my hair refuses to cooperate, I will search for new haircuts although I rarely find what I’m looking for. I check my email, primarily for coupons or to pay my bills. The most time I spend online is researching for my pop ups. My phone never loses its charge as I use it only for texting and for showing my digital coupons to cashiers.
That is why I had no idea So You Think You Can Dance was slated to return.
I was eager to see the classics: Nigel, Mary, even Paula Abdul. Much to my disappointment, it was all new people, except of course, Cat. Comfort was never one of my favorites, Allison lost my interest when she went to Dancing with the Stars although she had little ballroom background, and why is Maks there? Is the dance world so small that we recycle through the same people over and over again? I tried not to grumble when I watched only three auditions in the first twenty minutes. A little voice inside me was still tickled with joy that I was watching So You Think You Can Dance at all, that had I not pulled up the guide, I would have missed it. But would I have missed that much?
It sounded like a Real World experiment, that the dancers will live together or something. And why did it look funny? At times it looked like the background was fake. And the judges’ comments seemed forced and scripted. I focused on the positive—I did not have to hear JoJo’s grating loud voice nor hear her call everyone and everything “dude.”
Tuesday evening I felt unmotivated, lethargic. I was in a writing slump, perfectionism telling me the memoir I have written is crap and no one will want to read it. I avoided opening Word so it could not berate me. I wasted time online to find out the deal with So You Think You Can Dance.
Oh my god. Where have I been?
Paula Abdul accused Nigel Lythgoe of sexual assault—not even misconduct or harassment, but assault. Other women have also come forward. After two seconds of shock, I paused…and find I was not that shocked at all.
The dance world is filled with sexual misconduct. Dancers are treated like scum, ruled over by Nazi-like instructors. Dancers are at high risk of developing eating disorders. It’s a ruthless, only-the-strong (or connected) survive. Women are objects, men are dictators with all the power. Perhaps I was more surprised this is the first we’re hearing of it.
On the one hand, I adore Nigel. I liked him as a judge and he knew what he was talking about when it came to dance. But let’s face it—he had Creepy Old Man written all over him from day one.
Not as bad as Steven Tyler’s blatant ogling of American Idol contestants, which was apparently socially acceptable just a few years ago. Nigel reminded me of my high school geometry teacher, who used to call me the Lovely Miss Julie and every time I walked out of his classroom I felt like I needed a shower. Nigel gave me the same vibes. I don’t doubt Paula’s veracity, only question her timing. Why not come forward in the heydays of the #MeToo movement? Why now?
Max, too, has been accused of misconduct. How is he still a judge?
At least I know I wasn’t crazy, that the background did look fake and the judges’ comments were scripted. Nigel was a judge and they had to edit him out. I cringed more when I found out JoJo will be replacing Nigel as a judge…I’m preparing myself to hear a thousand “dudes” over the next few months.
The previous season of So You Think You Can Dance had its own controversy—judge Matthew Morrison was ousted after privately texting a contestant. Choreographers Shane Sparks, Alex Da Silva, even my beloved Travis Wall have all been accused of abusing their power. The dance world is fraught with scandal, a paradox to all that So You Think You Can Dance stands for, with its Dizzy Feet Foundation and its National Dance Day.
There’s a wholesome, yet shallow, nature to So You Think You Can Dance. It’s like watching a ballet: we’re awed by its beauty and perfection and ultimately care not how tortured the dancers are behind the scenes, only that the performance is breathtaking, worth the price of our ticket. Ellen’s happy stance on dance obviously was shallow when those who work for her said she was mean. And tWitch himself, the seemingly happy, positive, inspiring role model, suffered with Richard Cory’s fate. Dance didn’t save him—maybe it did for years, but ultimately couldn’t rescue him from whatever he was going through.
Maybe that’s what I find most difficult to reconnoiter as I watch this latest season of So You Think You Can Dance. It’s not real—it’s the Velveteen Rabbit, still stuffed and not accepting of its warts and faults. Yet I want to celebrate dance, for dancing or watching other people dance choreographed masterpieces make me happy, transport me to a fairy-tale world, a utopia free of the tanglements of reality. I’ll still watch it, perhaps with a bit more caution, and enjoy the dances (not the commentary or storylines, which I will fast forward).
To continue to love dance in a utopian form means we can never look behind the curtain.