Today is my third day in Houston at Lindyfest, a longstanding Lindy Hop convention deep in the heart of Texas. Last night I went to bed at three in the morning and slept for shit. The rash I have (where no one wants a rash) kept me up all night. I don’t mind saying it was (and is) miserable. This morning my alarm went off at eight-thirty, and I’m guessing I only slept a few hours. Dragging myself out of bed, I threw on some clothes, chugged some coffee, and headed downstairs to the ballroom to dance.

For tryouts.

The first time I came to Lindyfest was in 2007. A veteran East Coast Swing dancer, I had a growing interest in Lindy Hop, which, although related to East Coast Swing, is more difficult. So I met some dear friends in Tulsa, and we all travelled down together. Looking back, I guess that first year was my favorite. My friends and I were like a gang. We took classes together, danced together at night, went out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner together. At that time, everything about Lindy Hop was new and magical. I remember walking into the Melody Club for the first time and seeing hundreds–literally hundreds–of people doing the swing out, the basic movement in Lindy Hop. I was so dewy-eyed. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so excited.

I didn’t know it at the time, but there are all sorts of events in the Lindy Hop world. Some are bigger like Lindyfest, and others are smaller, like the one I used to host (Southern Fried Swing). Some events, usually the larger ones, have tryouts or auditions for upper-level classes. This is how Lindyfest is structured–levels 1 through 3 are open to anyone, and levels 4 and up are by the audition process only. However, that first year at Lindyfest, I didn’t have to worry about trying out. I knew where I belonged–at the bottom.

Y’all, back then, I didn’t know any better. I attended every single class I could, watched every performance, and danced all night. I’d skip sleep, even get sick, in order to learn how to Lindy Hop. Looking back, it really was an age of innocence. Now I sleep in, skip classes, and take it all in stride. Now the age of innocence is over.

As the years went by and I continued to attend Lindy Hop workshops, I started trying out for the more advanced classes. Some years I’d make the level I was trying out for, and just as often I wouldn’t. One year I made the upper-level classes, but my dance partner, whom I taught with, didn’t. I wish I could tell you that none of this bothered me, but it did. Whenever I didn’t make the level that I wanted, it usually spoiled the better part of a day. I’m sure my ego was involved. (It usually is.) I remember one year when I just stood there after the names of those who had been chosen for the advanced classes were called and I wasn’t one of them. Now I think I simply wanted to be validated, to be seen.

For the last five years, I haven’t been to Lindyfest, and I don’t mind saying that one of the good things about that for me has been the fact that I haven’t had to tryout for classes, feel judged, or worry about “rejection,” at least in the Lindy Hop world.

Since coming on board as this year’s Lindyfest marketing director, one of the main things the organizers and I have discussed has been the tryout process, since I’m apparently not the only one who’s had a negative experience with it. That being said, objectively, there are a lot of benefits to having tryouts. People (including myself) tend to rate their talents and dancing abilities higher than they actually are, and in order to ensure that everyone has the best learning experience possible, people really do need to be properly sorted or placed so they can work with their peers. Still, it’s a sore point for a lot of people, so many events, including Lindyfest, are constantly trying to improve or modify the process.

In the past, tryouts at Lindyfest have always been held on Friday AND Saturday, but this year the event tried something new. On Friday, everyone got to self-place, meaning that even a brand new dancer could take a top-level class, the idea being that people could “test” levels before trying out for them Saturday (this morning). Honestly, as a staff member, I was hoping to avoid the tryouts altogether. Remembering what it felt like to not “make it,” I thought, I’m too old for this shit. I know what I’m doing. I don’t want to feel bad if I don’t make it.

Well, somehow, I got over myself. First, after surveying the classes yesterday, I knew that I could keep up. Second, I realized that fair is fair. With only a few exceptions, everyone–staff or not–has to get up early and tryout if they want access to the advanced material. So that’s what I did. Running on only a few hours of sleep, I showed up in the ballroom with every other sleepy-eyed dancer here who hoped to end up in the highest level, level 7. (Well, there is a master’s level, but that’s by invitation only and was off my radar.)

Y’all, the audition process was–um–brutal. I mean, it wasn’t brutal because of the people running it. I thought they did a great job, and the lady explaining everything was very kind and understanding. Rather, it was brutal because I’ve been so sick lately. I was winded after the first two songs, and I think there were six or seven total, each progressively faster. And I don’t know, something about knowing that you’re being judged. Seriously, I’ve been dancing for over ten years, and all of a sudden, everything I knew flew out the window. So I had to tell myself, Calm down, Marcus. Dance solid basics. Use your technique. Listen to the music.

Okay, enough suspense. Despite the fact that I was sucking air and overly worried, I made it. I made level 7.

Y’all, I get that in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t a big deal. Had I made level 6, or even 5, I would have been okay by tomorrow. Hell, it’s not like I’m actually taking any classes. I mean, I’ve been sick, and now I’ve got this rash (where no one wants a rash) made worse by friction (in other words, dancing). For this reason, actually taking a class and rotating around to different partners sounds miserable. But I love having the option of going to any class I want. Plus, in some way I feel validated and seen, like I somehow got something I didn’t in the past when I tried out and didn’t “make it.”

I don’t like admitting it, but I got a special wristband when I made level 7, and it makes me feel–um–important. Honestly, I hate this. (And have thus argued against wristbands in my official capacity–because they separate people.) I hate that if only in the slightest, I feel better than any other dancer here. Because it’s a bunch of bullshit. What really matters is that I can see progress, that I can look back and see how far I’ve come, even if no one else recognizes it or if my wristband doesn’t say it. What should be important–and is, actually–is the fact that I was afraid of being rejected this morning and yet was willing to put myself out there, to effectively say, “This is how I dance and this is who I am. Like it or not. At the end of the day, I don’t give a shit.”

Having made the level that I wanted, I really can’t say much about being rejected. As one of my friends said when I started working for this event, “You’re in the cool kids’ club now.” I don’t know if that’s true or not–most people don’t look at Lindy Hoppers as cool to begin with–but I understand their point. It’s nice to be accepted. But I do get it–I know what it feels like to want something so bad–to be validated, to be seen–and not receive it. I’ve experienced that in the Lindy Hop world, and I still experience it now in other creative endeavors like writing.

This afternoon I was on the elevator with a dewy-eyed first time Lindyfest attendee, and when I asked her how she liked it, her face literally lit up. “I LOVE IT,” she said. And for just a moment, it made me want to go back to my first year, to the time I was excited about the dance because it’a joyful thing to do and not because it can make me look “cool.” Given the chance, I’d go back and tell myself, Baby, don’t worry about a wristband. It has nothing to do with who you are, and no one else can validate you–only you can do that. Certainly no one else can see you, really see you, until you see yourself and until you accept yourself exactly as you are. Try out if you want to, but I promise–as long as you live, you don’t ever have to prove a thing.