If an outsider were to wander off the leafy streets of Webster Groves into the Monday Club dance hall on a recent Sunday morning, they’d be hit with a scene that looked like a cross between Texas line dancing and a ball from a Bridgerton novel.
This is contra dance, and it’s become an unexpected haven for Affton resident Amanzi Umoya.
During the contra dance, Umoya and other dancers fly across the floor making patterns, lines, and shapes with other people. Like a conductor, a caller directs the movements, and they follow the commands, swirling and twirling in unison. Dancers keep the tempo by combining the caller’s instructions with accompaniment from musicians playing violins and other stringed instruments.
Although the dance can look old-fashioned, for Umoya, it’s a healing art that provides a release from social constructs and expectations.
“It was the first time I really felt okay to be in my skin somewhere," they said. "'Cause sometimes that's a struggle with looking the way that I do.”
Umoya, 42, first encountered contra dance after accepting an invitation from a friend while living in Charlotte, North Carolina, more than a decade ago.
They describe themselves as a large guy: broad-shouldered and built like a football player. At the Monday Club, he moved effortlessly through the crowd among twirling bodies, clapping hands and stomping feet.
Umoya, who identifies as non-binary, said there was a time when the contra dance community provided a safe place for them.
Contra dancing, like many types of partner-dance, began with traditional roles for “gents” and “ladies.” However, some modern groups have adopted gender neutral language. Callers will refer to dancers as “leads” and “follows” or “larks” and “ravens,” allowing people to try on both roles.
In addition to the intentional language, Umoya was drawn to fellow dancers’ clothing choices.
“I would say that the garb is one of the things that signaled to me that I was in a safer place,” Umoya said. “People are gonna wear things that keep them cool, but then sometimes people wear things because they're pretty. So you have folks wearing dresses and skirts, especially skirts that frill out.”
In the past, Umoya has experienced homelessness and joblessness. But, by attending dance weekends, he found things to do and friends willing to shelter him.
He took it upon himself to welcome others to the dance.
“My job was to find wallflowers who were kind of standing off to the side, and maybe they're a little shy and didn’t want to ask any of the more experienced dancers [to dance],” Umoya said. “So, my thing was to find them and help them have a good time.”
After hours of spinning and stomping, dancers work up an appetite. They might meet for a potluck or go for a bite to eat outside the dance hall.
“I remember my Charlotte group in particular, we had this game we would play. We'll be at a random place … and there'll be some music playing, and we're like, ‘Hey, how would you dance with this?’” described Umoya. “[We’d] just start dancing, and so then it just turns into a dance party in the middle of an Applebee's or in the middle of a diner.”
Once, Umoya decided to contra dance from Virginia to California, driving his Volkswagen to dances along the route. Contra dancing provided a way to connect with strangers in each town he visited.
“Sometimes I will go … in the middle of nowhere, wherever, and not know anyone,” Umoya said. “I did feel eyes on me … whenever I go places in rural areas, particularly, I'm like, ‘Am I okay here?’”
Once the music started and he began dancing, any concerns melted away. Contra dance, Umoya said, has given them a lifelong skill of dancing and communicating.
“I had a red Beetle and rode into the sunset,” said Umoya. “And that sunset was contra dancing.”
