When I started dancing, I had no prior dance experience whatsoever. In fact, if you know me, I’ve probably told you before about how in high school I went to a school-hosted “swing dance”, took a lesson, and immediately decided that turns were just way too complicated for me to perform successfully. As a result of this, five years into my dancing journey, I find myself confronted by the recurring question: am I a dancer?

I think this question is one that tends to be hard to answer for lindy hoppers (unless I’m totally mistaken, which is possible.) It would be easy to just say “yes, of course I am a dancer”, in the same way that the inspirational side of the internet would tell us that anyone who has ever drawn a picture is an artist. I think that, for the most part, that’s a belief that I subscribe to about dancing – I can dance, therefore I am a dancer.

That said, I also feel like there’s this weird hierarchy that everyone feels but no one talks about. If I am not a classical dancer, am I a still “a dancer”? If I am not proficient in that ultimate trifecta of dances that people start learning as toddlers (you know the ones, tap, jazz, ballet), then am I somehow less of a dancer? Because I practice in my carpeted living room with the furniture pushed aside because it’s all I have and all I can afford, am I less of a dancer than someone who practices in a wood-floored room with mirrors and barres and people in trendy workout-gear-turned-dance-gear? If I dance in jeans, am I less professional than someone who dances in nylon or chiffon?

And the questions go deeper than that. If my workshops are held in hotels and planned by a community of self-starters, are they somehow less serious than those held in conservatories with gray-haired masters and practice uniforms? If I dabbled in ballet in my college fitness classes, am I now more of a dancer than I was before just because I’ve branched out into “real” styles? If my dance was born between friends, and in ballrooms the size of city blocks, and in kitchens, and in living rooms, and in laughter, is it even still less meaningful than dances that were born on the world’s biggest stages?

Perhaps now is a good time to mention that I consider Lindy Hop (and all other vintage swing dances) to be completely legitimate, serious, historical, significant forms of dance. It’s just that sometimes I wonder if the rest of society sees it that way. If I meet someone and introduce myself as “a dancer,” but not a “ballet dancer” or a “broadway dancer”, or a “backup dancer”, then will their nose scrunch up in that facial whisper of “oh, so you’re not a real dancer?” And if it does, do I care? Should I care?

And even if the rest of society’s opinion doesn’t matter, what does our own community think? Can I call myself a dancer because I’ve taken a beginner lesson once? Can I call myself a dancer because I go dancing multiple times a week? What about because I practice outside of dances? Can I call myself a dancer because I’ve taught lessons? Because I’ve been paid to teach them? Do my placements (or lack thereof) in competitions determine my ability to identify myself? And am I the only one who feels like this is a gray place in our community, or do other people also feel this internal conflict? Am I a dancer? Are you a dancer? Are we all dancers? Are any of us dancers?

The thinking on this topic, for me at least, can get a little bit circular. There will always be questions about how to define ourselves – we are people, after all. So I guess I’ll wrap up with this: I went into writing this knowing that I am a dancer. I know this because I dance, though I am sure that I find reassurance in what I consider my dancing accomplishments as well. I don’t know how many members of society at large would consider me a “genuine” dancer (in that vague, undefinable sense), and I’m not sure that I care, though I definitely care about vintage swing dances gaining the kind of genuine recognition that they deserve. I know that I am a part of a community of people who are all dancers, though some of them may not see themselves that way all of the time. I also know that in a large community largely propelled by the enthusiasm and drive of individuals, it can be hard to feel that you are “as much of a dancer” as everyone else.

All things said, I think we needn’t waste our time feeling like imposters, whether it be around non-dancers, classical dancers, or members of our own community. When I teach beginner lessons, I try to remind myself to assure everyone that by taking this lesson, they are now dancers. They have something to contribute. They have been granted a new and totally legitimate way to identify themselves. I guess from there, it’s just up to each person to determine whether to take hold of that identity or not.

As a small but important aside, thanks to everyone who has paid a visit to my site recently! (It’s been nice knowing that my writing is being seen by someone other than myself!) If you liked this post, let me know by liking it, commenting, and if you feel so inclined, by subscribing so that you can get updates when I post. This type of meandering prose deal is something I enjoy writing, and I hope you liked reading it as well. As always, I would love to hear your thoughts on this topic as well – do you consider yourself a dancer? Feel free to start a discussion down below!