by Katharine Rawls
About a year ago, I was with my Type Six boyfriend at his son’s small-venue rock concert when my boyfriend pulled me aside and told me I had to stop dancing because I was jeopardizing his son’s nascent music career. I tried to talk to him about what he said, but we were at sort of an impasse. His comment confused me because when I was younger I rather thought I was admired for my jazzy way of hand dancing. Numb from his comment, I decide to turn around and slowly walk out of t...
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