Dancing Queen by Georgia Chen

“You are the dancing queen. Young and sweet. Only seventeen.” 

Amidst the cacophony of off-key singing and crackling party poppers, I gently blew a gust of air towards the enormous cake, snuffing out the flickering candle in an instant. A great eruption of applause filled the room as beloved friends and family flooded towards me to exchange their congratulations. It was another momentous day for me — I finally became a dancing queen. 

Reminiscing on the past seventeen years of my life, I slowly unraveled the archives that were my memories and experiences. My first steps at four, first sleepover at five, first day of school at six, I could only revel in the sweetness of childhood nostalgia. But as I grew older, the thresholds that defined my growth had changed. 

I first noticed a man’s presence in the local playground. He perched on a bench as he scanned the crowded perimeter, completely out of place. His sights were eventually locked on me. With an uncomfortably burning fixation, he just… gawked. Whether I was dangling on the monkey bars or swerving down the slide, his eyes tracked me as if he couldn’t afford to avert his gaze for just a second; as if his oblivious muse would vanish out of thin air if he blinked. Oddly enough his hand never seemed to stop writhing in his pocket. I was only eight. 

While I desperately strived to resemble Barbie dolls with constant starvation and laxatives, unbeknownst to me, I was already a bombshell in the eyes of some. In fact, I was apparently so desirable that a man just had to buy me a drink. The delicate wine glass fiercely shoved into my quivering palms as the burgundy concoction sloshed around. Something about it just looked so wrong. But no matter how politely I declined, he pushed, and prodded, and pressed. Being backed into a corner by a man old enough to be my grandfather, all I could do was play along. Just as lifeless and enslaved as a doll, I guess I got what I wished for. I was only fifteen. 

But these Peeping Toms, these uninvited voyeurs, these outright creeps, they grew ballsy. During the height of the pandemic, I resorted to conducting my typical workout routine at the park, much like many others. And that day was no different. Whilst lifting weights, I caught a glimpse of a figure at the corner of my eye. He started off just pacing around nearby in an attempt to blend in. Then he just stood still merely inches away as lustful eyes were transfixed to my body. Before I could even protest, his phone was pointed towards me. Click. Flash. He looked at his screen, then back at me. Seemingly satisfied, he sauntered off. At that point, I was no longer human. I couldn’t even call myself an animal. My value was the same as that of a slab of meat. After all, who needs permission from an object to be tampered with? Hell, I should be honoured that I’m receiving attention like this. I'm already seventeen! 

Reminiscing on the past seventeen years of my life, I slowly succumb to the archives that are my fears and pain. My first drink, my first cigarette, my first assault, I could only wallow in the bitterness of adolescence. Being seventeen, I’m on the precipice of adulthood. I’m no longer a girl but I’m not a woman either. I’m too young to be independent yet too old to feign ignorance,

so I’m only left to ponder: is this womanhood? Was it my fault? Why are you looking at me like that? No… it's true! Believe me, please 

Enough. I’ve had enough. It's always me. I'm the problem. I'm just throwing out blind accusations. I'm just blowing things out of proportion. Or maybe, just maybe, I'm a liar. 

How dare you. 

I’m tired of Hong Kong’s societal expectation that women should remain subservient, naive, and complacent towards sick abusers who relish in the sexual gratification of power imbalances. Truth is, simply “forgiving and forgetting” shouldn’t be an option here, but rather fully embracing rebellion and disobedience against their selfish entitlement. If our whimpers are left unheard, then it’s time to bare our fangs. Since we’re just going to be labelled as a bitch regardless, might as well bite back as hard as we can. 

For now, I can dance. I can jive. But more importantly, I deserve to have the time of my life.