I'm too old to be at a club. I am a 34-year-old man, proudly riding into my 35th year with a smile. I used to go clubbing in my 20s, and it was the thing to do. Alcohol fueled so many nights that I can't remember. Unlike most of Gen Z (according to news outlets), I spent my 20s shit-faced dancing from dusk to dawn. Why? Because I thought I was invincible and that I'd never see 30. We didn't know we'd be in our 30s and grappling with the consequences of weekend-long benders.
Clubbing between 2011 and 2015 was about expressing something we couldn't put into words. We had a Black president, but war raged on in the Middle East, fueled by our tax dollars and the greedy war machine. There was something I can't put into words that kept us going. Age has dulled that feeling in me. Honestly, I'd rather be home watching TV now. It's not my time anymore, and I accept that. I still needed to know, though. What is the new club scene about?
Last Thursday, despite the urge to go home and sleep, I decided to go out to a club. With everything happening in America, I needed to see what was happening in clubs and, more importantly, what was fueling it. I sought out a majority-Hispanic club. Why? Because my fellow POC are targets of this administration (time of writing Oct. 2025). It's easy to seek out the more white demographic clubs. But I needed to see what was happening under the current pressure and fear. Guess what I saw? If you said the depresso shuffle, then you'd be wrong. It was nothing short of raw, energetic dancing. It was as though something possessed them.
The dance floor was a wave of arms and legs. Sweat pooled on everyone's faces as they issued cheers. I felt so out of place. Not because I am older, but because I couldn't embody the rebellion they did. In a fucked-up way, I had come to see others in my exact type of sadness. Afraid and unsure of the future. In a way, I longed for company in my fearful misery.

I sat at the bar, soaking up every ounce of the moment. Two beers deep, I began to feel akin to a lantern bug perched on a bush 8,799 miles away from where I belonged, invasive. I'm not white, nor am I Latino. I watched as dozens of people danced and sang despite so much terror happening less than 100 miles away. Homes are being raided by ICE, and people are being kidnapped. Despite ICE's actions, though, the people in the club smiled and danced. I couldn't understand it. Where was the fear? I'm scared. So why weren't they?

Watching in confusion, I drank from my overpriced beer and got a notification. The Supreme Court was hearing a case that could overturn the Voting Rights Act of 1965. A fear washed over me that I can't explain. My grandparents lived through an inability to marry, and their voting power was near non-existent for most of their lives. They would tell me stories when they could still remember them from that era. It was terrible. Scrolling through my phone at the bar, the music was drowned out by CNN talking heads discussing the possible aftermath of it being overturned. After 10 minutes, I couldn't take it.

Removing my headphones, I took a breath to bring myself back to the present. It didn't work. I'm a queer Black man, thankfully living in a liberal state, suddenly looking at my vote being worth less. What does voting matter if all it takes to make my vote meaningless is one Republican win and a new gerrymandered map? At this moment, I overheard the patrons next to me discussing the same topic. Two white men, talking about local politics. I listened, and I grew angrier the more I did. They spoke from a place unthreatened. They would still be able to vote, and it would make a difference. I couldn't handle it. I stood up and began to leave when I heard "El Clúb" come on.

"El Clúb" began to play, and it hit different. I barely understand Spanish, but I understood enough to know Bad Bunny was longing for a lost love. Something he couldn't get back. In that moment, I related to it. Not the longing of a person, but a country; my country. The drums guided my hips into a sway. A sway became a two-step. Before I knew it, I was feeling it. The fear was still there, but it had a voice now. The fear for my siblings, niece, and friends manifested. I became one with the dance floor and didn't give a single fuck.
It didn't hit me until after, on the ride home, that the feeling of that moment was a release. I was so focused on how my Southern brothers and sisters could be dancing at a time like this that I forgot the importance of dance in moments like this. In moments of fear, persecution, and uncertainty, it is essential to find release.
In my youth, we danced to express ourselves and say something about ourselves. We wanted to demonstrate that we were alive, unique, and significant. Why? Obama was living proof that people could achieve feats previously thought impossible. "Heads Will Roll" by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs guided us into our 20s with thunderous ambition.

I experienced something different that Thursday night. The dance wasn't fueled by the drive to stand out and be unique. It was a rebellion. Rebellion against a future of oppression, fear, and racism. It was glorious. That's not to say they aren't scared. I'm sure they were just as afraid as I was, but they still found the strength to stand up and dance. An expression of freedom and joy when that is trying to be taken from them. A valuable lesson.

Although maybe I'm overthinking it, and I just drank too much and danced like a jackass to some banger Bad Bunny tunes. You decide.

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