Get Your Groove On

The art of physical movement as a means of personal expression. 

By Sara Omer

Illustration by Isabelle Oh

After a thrilling and chaotic first semester, I couldn’t wait to take the 2 train down to Brooklyn and spend winter break cozying up on my couch, engulfed in my sofa and sticking my head inside the haven of a thick book. At Columbia, I had found it difficult to schedule time for myself, as I have for most of my life. This was finally my chance to get as much drawing, painting, and crocheting done as I could and to recharge my depleted social battery. At least, that was the plan.

However, I quickly found myself missing the mouthwatering Ethiopian food at Massawa on Amsterdam, the hot steam emerging from my Adeni chai from Qahwah House, and the trips to Riverside Park with my newfound friends. As much as I loved my solitude, the first few months at Columbia surrounded by soon-to-be friends, colleagues, and unrequited love had pushed me out of my comfort zone. 

And so, one day I put down my brush and hopped on the Q train up to Broadway Dance Center by Times Square. As I was climbing up the stairs of the Broadway Dance Center with my friends Líssia and Corinne, I couldn't differentiate the thump of the music reverberating in the dim studio from the exhilarating thump of my heartbeat. The other dancers were already on the floor, legs up, performing their warm ups as we piled in frantically and made our way everyone else 

Our choreographer was everything I expected a hip-hop instructor to be. Every enthusiastic bark from our instructor injected itself into my stiff bones. Tyla’s Truth or Dare blasted from the speakers as we semi-perfected our choreography. We were thirty individuals of all different ages and skill levels, but we had one thing in common: the desire to move. 

These thoughts unfolded in my mind with every side step, stomp, and twirl of our bodies. Each of us had a life outside of this studio, with a whirlwind of responsibilities. This was our chance to enjoy the present moment for what it was and use our bodies for something other than the constant demands of NYC. 

I found a new form of solitude in dancing. My body was a means of expressing feelings of excitement and happiness, when I had previously sought refuge in visual art. What I had assumed to be an overly extroverted pastime (for someone who prefers to use pen and paper to unwind and communicate)  turned out to be another means of introspection and exploring my identity. This desire to move more, to dance more, to utilize every ounce of this intricate vessel that was gifted to me, grew with every ache in my body. 

But I couldn’t stop there. This enticing itch to feel the beat in my body could only be relieved by dancing again, by watching others dance, by feeling the joy radiating from the other dancers as the floor shakes and our sweaty faces glisten under the warm stage lights. When I returned to campus, I wanted to continue this new recreation I had discovered. Being a total novice, however, meant that among the many talented dance clubs at Columbia, there was only one that called out unjudgmentally with open arms: Orchesis. 

One of the highlights of my second semester was joining Orchesis and dancing to bbno$’s Edamame with our choreographer Sanya and the many other upperclassmen I came to know and befriend. After that,dancing made its way into every aspect of my freshman year at Columbia. From whirling on the Furnald lawns with Fifth Harmony’s Worth It blasting through our tiny speaker, to watching EMERGE125 contemporary dancers glide through the air in their iconic theater at El Museo del Barrio, dancing has become a way both to feel alive amidst the chaos around me as well as a way to create meaningful connections with other students. And if you ever join a beginners Afro dance class at Barnard, you might just find me there, drenched in sweat and accidentally stepping on other dancers’ toes, but euphoric nonetheless.