On the Bowery, in the ornate carcass of a formerly grand vaudeville theater, a dance marathon limps along. The contestants, young girls and their fellas, hold one another up, determined to make their mark, to bite back at the dreams sold to them in newspaper advertisements and on the radio. They have sores on their feet but stars in their eyes.
Libba BrayI run after her, not really giving chase. Iโm running because I can, because I must. Because I want to see how far I can go before I have to stop.
Libba BrayWhy should we girls not have the same privileges as men? Why do we police ourselves so stringently- whittling each other down with cutting remarks or holding ourselves back from greatness with a harness woven of fear and shame and longing? If we do not deem ourselves worthy first, how shall we ever ask for more?
Libba BrayIn the end, I take my shoes off and stick my feet in, letting the lukewarm water lick at my ankles. It feels good, and not just because Iโm stoned. I make a mental note to add this to Dulcieโs list of things worth living for. For some reason, I keep seeing her rolling her eyes at me, that big, goofy grin stretching her face like Silly Putty. On my private list, I add her smile. She doesnโt have to know.
Libba Bray