Lessons learnt on queer dance floors

What 15 years on queer dance floors from Cardiff to San Francisco has taught me, including a few surprise lessons.

Birti Ishar - Unsplash

Over the past three years, I have interviewed over 100 people and listened to their experiences in our queer spaces. It always amazes me how two people can be in the same space, listening to the same music, and yet have completely different experiences.

I’m struggling to put it into words, but I’m trying. For the sake of my book, which is out next year, I hope I’ve done it justice.

Clubbing is not just about blowing off steam; it’s a ritual, a vital part of your mental and emotional reset. The music, the lights, the people—it all creates this euphoric blend that allows you to escape. It's not just a night out; it’s a celebration of identity, a reclamation of space, and a declaration of freedom. You’re not just another face in the crowd; you're part of a vibrant, living legacy of shared experiences and histories.

Are these spaces heterotopias? A concept elaborated by philosopher Michel Foucault to describe certain cultural, institutional, and discursive spaces that are somehow "other": disturbing, intense, incompatible, contradictory, or transforming. Heterotopias are worlds within worlds, mirroring and yet upsetting what is outside.

Or are they utopias? A phrase coined by Sir Thomas More for his 1516 book Utopia, which describes a fictional island society in the New World; an imaginary community or society that possesses highly desirable or near-perfect qualities for its members.

I believe it is the latter; however, I am not naive to believe it is perfect. On the podcast, I chat with members of our community from the global minority who have told me of their experiences with undisclosed racist door policies and private members' bars actively excluding our trans brothers and sisters.

But it is getting there. It is evolving. It is changing, and the more we continue to raise concerns and stand united, the more welcoming and forward-thinking these spaces become.

But what’s the real cost of this utopia?

Navigating through life as a queer person, you often find solace in places that seem to exist outside the usual rules and norms. The idea of queer utopia - a place where you can be yourself without judgment or fear - sounds like a dream.

Imagine arriving at a club, drenched from the rain, yet feeling an incredible sense of freedom. Here, no one is staring at you like you’re out of place. Instead, everyone is lost in their own world, embracing the rain and each other. This scene captures the essence of queer utopia: a space where you can emote, connect, and simply be.

Queerness is more than just a label; it’s a practice. It's reaching for something just beyond your grasp, constantly striving for a place that feels right. Clubbing embodies this practice. It’s not just about the music or the dancing; it’s about the feeling of being in a place where you belong. It’s about the connections you make on the dance floor, in smoking areas, and in those fleeting moments when you lock eyes with a stranger who feels like a kindred spirit.

In her essay “A Tribute to Shy Girls on the Dancefloor,” Brittany Newell talks about how dancing can be a way to deal with social anxiety. Clubbing offers a way to be with people without the need for conversation. You can lose yourself in the music, surrounded by bodies, yet feel no pressure to engage beyond that. For queer people, whose lives are often politicised, this neutral ground is revolutionary. It’s a place where you can be visible yet invisible, seen yet not judged.

Queer clubbing isn’t just about fun; it’s a form of healing. It’s where you work out your struggles, try on new identities, and express your individuality. It’s a space that allows you to dissolve into a collective consciousness, where you can be truly alone and totally together. In these moments, you’re free from the usual constraints of society. You can experiment, express affection, and connect deeply with others.

Historically, queer spaces have always been sanctuaries. From Molly Houses with their blacked-out windows to modern-day clubs, these places have been where we find our community and ourselves. They’re where we can express our desires, be seen, and be safe. They’re where we can be openly affectionate without fear.

But it’s important to recognise that not every queer club is a utopia. Like any other space, they can have their own hierarchies and exclusions. The quest for queer utopia is ongoing, and it’s often a struggle. Yet, in striving for better, we sometimes succeed. And when we do, it’s magical.

I remember my first time at a queer club. The nerves, the excitement, the overwhelming sense of belonging. It was like stepping into another world. A world where I didn’t have to explain myself, where I could just be. It was transformative. That night, I danced with strangers who felt like friends, and for the first time, I felt truly seen. It was a taste of queer utopia, and it left a lasting impression.

These moments are vital. They’re what keep us going, what remind us why we fight for our rights and our spaces. They’re the nights we live for, the memories we hold onto. They’re what make all the struggles worthwhile.

In the end, the cost of queer utopia isn’t just measured in tangible terms. It’s in the effort we put into creating and maintaining these spaces. It’s in the resilience we show in the face of adversity. It’s in the joy we find in each other’s company. And it’s in the unwavering belief that everyone deserves a place where they can be themselves.

So, next time you find yourself on a dance floor, remember the history and the struggle that brought you there. Celebrate the freedom, the connection, and the joy. Embrace the utopia you’ve helped create, even if just for a night. Because in those moments, you’re not just dancing - you’re living your truth, and that’s priceless.