The Mosh Pit at the Michigan Womyn's Music Festival - Part 1

[August 4, 2011]
Like iron filings drawn to a bar magnet in a school science demonstration, women and girls start to form a crowd at the front of the stage  --  drawn there by Erase Errata, the all-woman indie rock band.

The band is playing under the stars at the 36^th annual Michigan Womyn's Music Festival, rocking the 650-acres of woman-owned land.

My skin tingles as I sit on the lawn under the night sky in my chair next to my beloved, some friends, and hundreds of other women.

A mosh pit forms.  "Playtime!" my brain registers. I can see the moshing and feel the energy drawing me in.

“Emily,"  I say,“wanna go?”

“Yes!” is her reply.

My feet feel light as we hustle towards the back of the standing crowd.  We bounce and jump up and down to Jenny Hoyston’s electric guitar. I squeeze past other women and head towards the front of the stage.

I am now on the edge of the line between dancing observer and slam dance participant.

I watch as the women in front of me push with open hands the backs of other women sending a small pulsing mass of bodies from one edge of the circle to another.  Other women, arms and hands extended straight along the sides of their bodies ram their shoulders into the mass and bounce off in different directions.

I look back at Emily, then forward towards the circle of pushing dancers.  My girl-child rises up inside my 45-year-old, 168-lb, 5’8” body.  She will not be denied this chance to play.

I enter the pit by pushing the back of a woman in front of me as I propel us forward.  I feel hands on my back, pushing me sideways into more movement.

I feel the energy of assertive shoving.  I feel play and not anger in that energy and so I feel safe.

I start to recognize the faces of the women around me as I continue to enter and withdraw from the circle.  I push and am pushed.  I hold and am held as we move forward, yielding to the group’s energy. My smile must be a mile-wide.  I can’t help myself.  I feel free.

And now I trip and am on the ground.  Immediately, a woman stands over me with arms extended keeping other slam dancers away.  Another woman, out of nowhere, picks me up off the ground.

“You’re not going to get hurt, hon,” she says.

I am on my feet again, I back away from the circle, cross over the invisible line and become a dance spectator again.  I get my bearings and then cross back over the line with a push on the back of the woman in front of me as I send her in a new direction within the slamming crowd of dancers.

“I am supposed to be here,” I notice this thought inside my head, and I am thrilled at hearing it.  I feel included in this invented sport of people much younger than me.  I am grateful for my healthy, athletic shape and my love of movement and this playful temporary community that Erase Errata has created through an electric guitar, bass and drums. 

While the dancing continues, the crowd surfing begins.  I see women bodies lifted like planks as other women extend their arms overheard supporting their lifted sisters and sending them back through the crowd.  I extend my arms and join in.    

“Wow!” I feel inside.  “Wow!”

“Will you lift me up?” a would-be crowd surfing woman asks me. 

“Will I lift you up?” I repeat back to her. 

The question and my observations of the technique in others give me the willingness to say “Yes!”  She puts her arm around my shoulder and I lift her up while many more extended arms materialize instantly to support us as if orchestrated by some invisible director. And she is off sailing above waters of strong arms made stronger by their togetherness.

I want to sail.  I am afraid tonight.  Am I too big?  Too old?  Should I place my trust in this group of anonymous women?  Will I fall?  Will I be denied if I ask?

I have another chance tomorrow.  Perhaps I will work my way up to it.