I have been dancing for a decade. I’ve taught, traveled around the world to dance, and choreographed. Dancers respect me and come to me for my expertise.
Some awesome songs came on at a birthday party, so I started dancing. This boy pressed the side of his hip to mine to correct me. “No, no. You’re doing it all wrong. Let me teach you.”
This is the crucial spot where we choose what to do with mansplaining: swallow our rage, gently correct despite our rage, or let them soak in our rage. I am happy to inform all of you other angry people that I let him have it.
“You’re trying to teach me? I KNOW how to dance.”
“Yeah! What dances do you know?” Trying to catch me in a lie and put me in my place, establishing his dominance.
“Blues, swing, tango, lindy hop, salsa, jazz, modern, hip hop, and tap.”
O yes. And I said it loudly in front of everyone he knew.
Not only did I say it, but so did all my fellow dancers.
“Yeah! She’s a beast on the dance floor.”
“She really knows what he’s doing.”
“She’ll dance circles around you.”
And then, to pin the nail in the coffin, I said with extreme calm and confidence, “It seems I need to teach you how to dance.”
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