Farida F. Alvarez

Some thoughts on The Female Gaze. Recently, I’ve been attending both Heels and Burlesque dance classes. The experiences, while empowering, also highlight the very things they set out to undo.

My heels class is not that friendly. 

Standing there in my Cinderella stripper heels, taking turns to strut up and down the dance studio- I look to my fellow strutters – try to share a moment of empathy. But no joy. The class is led by a super youthful and energetic teacher, youthful because she’s young, she can’t be more than 23.

It attracts women from all ages and walks of life. Some show up with a friend, secure in their compound bond, exchanging coded glances and smiles, others like me, on a solo yolo. 

The overthinker in me needs to scan the room to see who’s performing, who’s real, who’s open: a highly sensitive vibe check before I can let my guard down. One girl today clocked my Palestinian scarf, and most likely Arab, complimented me on it. An unlikely but welcome moment of Palestinian solidarity. 

I’m conscious that I might have resting bitch face, so I try to project a positive vibe, although maybe it should just be me that speaks up first. 

But in my heels class, there is a distinct lack of eye contact.

Wearing heels and accentuating every part of the female anatomy is the epitome of everything we have been conditioned to believe is feminine. We are holding ourselves up to these societal expectations except this time- it is us that is looking back at ourselves in the mirror. The gaze is our own. As empowering as that is, it invites comparison. The camaraderie one might expect from sisters doing it for themselves is masked by subtle and heavily engrained competition. 

In unconsciously comparing ourselves, our ability to connect with one another gets lost. We’re not looking at each other directly – we are not opening our eyes and allowing those small moments of vulnerability, because we already feel vulnerable, exposed even. Comparison trumps connection. 

Self empowerment becomes a lonely act. 

It’s a very different vibe at my Monday burlesque class. Inclusivity is its whole feather boa draped USP. It’s taught and attended by drag queens, trans people, and women. It’s cross-cultural, inter-generational, non-binary and whatever you want it to be. Anyone can do burlesque and it’s conducive to chattiness. 

At heels class, the chatter is directed towards the teacher, who is our Queen Bee. We buzz around her excitedly but not necessarily with each other.

There’s this moment 10 minutes before the end when people start queuing up for salsa class outside. There’s a couple of men that like to look through the window from the hallway into the studio while we’re doing our sexy thing in our heels. There’s floor work, writhing and whining; channelling the divine feminine one hip pop at a time. At that point the teacher struts over to the window and pulls the blinds down saying there are men watching, we don’t want that.

And at that moment something clicks. There’s an energy shift in the room where we are emboldened and our dancing becomes tighter and more joyful. Granted, we’ve been drilling the choreo for a while, but that moment of defiance is the main, maybe the only instance of camaraderie. Now it’s about ourselves, the mirror and surrendering to the music. I felt it in myself, but I definitely felt it in the room. This moment is ours and no one else’s. 

Maybe next Sunday, as an experiment, I could try and strike up a conversation when we’re drilling the technique stuff, while we’re taking turns strutting from one side of the studio to the other. Actively seek out opportunities to offer words of encouragement. Bring a little burlesque to the heels.