I love dancing, it connects my mind with my body and somehow frees both. I spent most of my life avoiding the dance floor like it was made of quicksand. My first slow dance was at seventeen, I was terrified at the thought of a guy putting his hands on my hips and swaying to the rhythm. My friends tried to teach me to dance in high school, all I remember them saying was, “Morgan, try not to move and jerk so much.”
My paranoia of looking dumb on the dance floor ended about three years ago. I finally internalized mom saying #431 “___________ (insert your name), no one notices you as much as you notice yourself, the’re too busy worrying about themselves.” Since then I dance a lot, mostly in the living room with the door tightly locked, but I do enjoy shaking what my Mama gave me in public from time to time. I’m a spaz on the dance floor, jumping around like an idiot is much more fun than worrying about if I look cool or am being enticing.
This Friday, my friends and I went dancing. It was a blast, we had a great group and they even played my theme song “Baby Got Back.” When we arrived at the club, us girls took a detour to the bathroom for a necessary lip gloss check. Standing in the cramped quarters was a small Latino woman handing out soap, perfume, paper towels and accepting tips. I was frustrated! I can get my own paper towel, thank you. It’s a scam for more money, why tip for something I can easily do my self. So I did what I always do, I ignored her, took the towel and didn’t tip.
As I was grooving on the dance floor, I felt a prompting in my Spirit. One of the “assignments” the powers that be at AIM gave us was to interview someone we don’t know and blog about them. All week I’ve been praying that God would lead me to the right person. As clear as day God said “Morgan, that woman in the bathroom, she is it.”
As I weaved my way between sweaty, tipsy people, I started to think about her life. I can’t imagine having a job where everyone looks over you and talks around you. I approached the timid woman and asked her name. It was apparent that she didn’t speak English, so I mustered the nerve to try communicating in my very flawed Spanish.
Esmeralda spends her weekend nights in the restroom with drunken Americans because she loves her three children, and this way she only has to be away from them three nights a week. Because of that she doesn’t mind her job. She lives in Mexico, not to far from the border and just comes over to work. Family is her priority and she is willing to sacrifice in order to be with them.
How many Esmeralda’s are in my life? How many people do I walk by and ignore or worse yet think live to serve me? Where do I get off thinking I am entitled to be treated a certain way, while I don’t treat so many others that way? I know I won’t always get it right, but I want to live my life as a “there you are” person, not a “here I am person.” One of my desires is to really notice those around me. I want to let God use me in the seemingly insignificant things, kind words, a gentle smile, or a loving touch.
