And All That Jazz
In dance class, we’re working on a piece to the broadway classic, Cell Block Tango.
As a kid, I remember being in awe of Chicago. The outfits! The dance! The macabre entanglement of murder, fame, and all that jazz.
The movie was a middle-school sleepover staple. As young girls, we stared at the screen and willed ourselves to become that captivating. We all wanted to be seen.
The girl I was then still didn’t really understand what it was to be looked at. I heard Roxie Hart sing about being a star, and I wanted it, too. To be the name on everybody’s lips. To live in a world of “yes!”
As I grew up, I learned the hard way that eyes aren’t always adoring. My pre-teen fantasies of being noticed in a crowd were shattered by creepy men who leered at my cleavage on the sidewalk. Even worse were the boys who promised to treat me like their headlining act, only to take advantage of their access.
That’s just showbiz, baby.
Showing up in the group chat after not responding for months
Instead of shrinking away, I took the opposite approach. I wore pushup bras and talked loudly about my dating life. I gave ‘em the old razzle dazzle.
For a while, I thought of myself as a sexy bombshell. I touted complete freedom over my feelings. Sex was just another kind of spectacle. I detached further and further into a character of someone comfortable in their skin.
It was the performance of a lifetime.
In the prison of the pandemic, my narrative unravelled. I’ve started to notice the way I flinch when someone touches me. I feel the stress that sprawls my neck and shoulders when strange men approach. Sometimes I spook when my husband catches me off guard.
Despite acting like a huntress, I’ve lived like prey my whole life. I took centre stage more in self-defence than self-expression. I thought being an easy target made it easier to protect myself, too.
There have been hundreds of moments when I felt my persona wither. Years ago at an office party, a drunk VP put his hand around my waist. He said something in my ear - I think it was about the food - but I was so focused on the finger he had at the top of my rib that I couldn’t focus.
It was my first corporate job, and I froze.
He walked away almost immediately, and I spiralled. Was that as inappropriate as I thought it was? Do people think I was flirting?
I started crying, and a coworker rushed over to help. I left, mortified.
The next week I toyed with bringing the incident to HR. Secretly, women came to my cubicle and mentioned that this had happened before. How great would it be, they said, if you got him fired?
He had it coming all along.
Only, I didn’t see it that way. I thought it was overwhelming and potentially damning. I said nothing, and, a year later, I sat across from that same VP to ask about an opening on his team. He promised me an interview that never happened.
Who says that murder's not an art?
Getting fired up at family dinner
As I’ve been reflecting, I’ve stepped from the spotlight to the shadows. There, I’ve become angry. Now when I dance to refrains of “that dirty bum, bum, bum,” I remember the men who’ve grabbed me at clubs, called me names, lied about sleeping with me, and slipped drugs into friends’ drinks. It’s easy - perhaps easier than it should be - to tap into the murderous rage of the song.
Anyone who’s been following this blog for a while knows the anger that can simmer beneath my sentences. Stories about sexual assault, street harassment, and sports culture have me furiously beating my keyboard. I’ve entered a second act where being heard is more important than being seen.
For a musical that debuted in 1975, Chicago is rather progressive in its vindication of wronged women. The world seems to finally be catching up. A new season of celebrity redemption arcs has graced my screens as we look back on the awful, inhumane ways we’ve treated (and are treating) women in the spotlight.
It was a different era when I was first dazzled by Chicago. Renee Zellweger was commended for her weight loss since being “disgustingly overweight” in Bridget Jones’s Diary. In 2002, women’s bodies were the talk of the town. No one knows this better than Pamela Anderson.
Walking into a meeting late with an iced coffee from Starbucks
In her newly released documentary, Pamela Anderson spans the highs and lows of her life and career. She fills in the emotional blanks that were left out of the coverage about her fake boobs, sex tape, and love affairs. But, she still uses herself as the butt of the joke.
Watching her story, I felt a sense of kinship. She had her sexuality exploited early and tried to reclaim it with nude photo shoots and a full-blown love addiction.
She has every right to be vengeful and bitter over what has happened to her. Instead, Pam speaks about it with measured grace. As the Atlantic points out, it’s as though she’s long ago accepted defeat.
A part of me wants her to be angrier. I want her to rip apart every man who has exploited or taken something from her. I want her to cast the blame.
Instead, her demeanour sparked a very different part of my psyche.
The documentary is framed as a love story to herself. Pamela is an endless people pleaser, and, only in her fifties is she finally doing something fully for herself. She’s exploring her inner relationship by playing Roxie Hart on broadway.
Seeing her in rehearsals was refreshing. Pamela breathes life into the character with a full understanding of what it means to be seen and to live with the consequences of a tainted spotlight. Roxie doesn’t just want to be famous, she says. She wants to be respected.
The endless romance that Pamela colours her world with is hopeful. Despite it all, she still believes in art, vulnerability, and love. Revenge was never worth her time, and neither was being a victim. She’s healing herself with more and more performance.
Me and my bestie dodging men on the dance floor
My dance show is at the end of March, and I can’t wait to take the stage with these women again. Channelling my anger into a broadway classic is cathartic, but the real healing happens in the changing room. We remind each other to be kind to ourselves in rehearsal. We listen to the awful stories of abuse. We let each other be seen in a space of kindness and support.
That’s the unsung plot of Chicago, too. Women who shift their relationships from competition to support. Women who take care of each other and vent behind closed doors. Women who know all too well what it’s like to be angry, scared, or vilified.
Like a lot of women, I’m working toward a relationship with my sexuality that’s relaxed and self-assured.
But I can’t do it alone.
