The Dance She Danced

The Dance She Danced

by Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

They called her crazy.

They called her high.

But what they didn’t call her was holy.

And holy she was.

In the thick syrup of New Orleans heat, where gumbo pots gossip and ghosts tap their feet in alleyways, she danced. Right there on Decatur and Dumaine, where saints and sinners all sip from the same bottle, she spun like a record the angels been tryin’ to replay since the fall of Eden.

She didn’t ask nobody for permission. Didn’t wait for no second line or brass band. She was the music. Baby, she didn’t just hear the drum she was the drum. Skin, bone, rhythm, and reason, all baptized in sweat and Spirit.

Folks say, “Ain’t no way she movin’ like that without somethin’ in her system.”

And Lord, they was right.

She had the whole divine playlist in her bloodstream.

No powder, no pills just power. That uncut, unfiltered God-force flowin’ through her like she was plugged directly into heaven’s socket.

Her body? An altar.

Her sway? A scripture.

Her spin? A psalm.

She had pain in her past, yes Lord, you could see it in the way her left shoulder dipped like it remembered burdens too heavy for words. But she didn’t drag it around like a dead dog no, she spun it off her like a bad lover and sent it floatin’ down Bourbon Street with the rest of yesterday’s ghosts.

And child, let me tell you, she had haters.

“They need to lock her up.”

“She embarrassin’ herself.”

“Lord knows she off somethin’.”

Mmmhm. She was off somethin’ off fear, off shame, off control, off the leash of expectations that choke most folks till they forget how to breathe. While they clutched their pearls and Bible apps, she was out there breathin’ holy fire with her feet.

She danced like the sidewalk owed her joy. Like every stone had whispered secrets from the ancestors and she was writin’ 'em in cursive with her hips. Her skirt spun like the wheels on Ezekiel’s chariot. Her arms reached like she was tryna hug the whole damn sky.

And the sky reached back.

You ever seen somebody so in tune, the wind follow them like a puppy? That’s how she moved. The breeze didn’t just hit her it bowed. The sun didn’t just shine it stood still to get a better look.

And her laugh? Lord have mercy.

That laugh could raise the dead and rebuke a demon in the same breath.

She’d let it loose mid-spin like a trumpet shout, and you’d feel it rattle your bones remindin’ you of everything you forgot: that you too could be free. You too could be whole. You too could dance your way back to God.

People forget this city was built on bones and beats. Congo Square wasn’t no myth. Spirit lives here. And baby girl? She tapped into it like it was her birthright. Her body remembered what the world tried to erase.

She didn’t come to entertain you.

She came to wake the dead parts of you up.

She danced for your healing, even when you didn’t ask.

She danced so the children could see what freedom looked like.

So the old folks could believe again.

So the tourists could stop takin’ pictures and start takin’ notice.

And let me tell you something: she wasn’t alone. When she danced, you felt your grandmama’s prayers in her shoulders.

You heard the hush of midnight hushpuppies and back-porch blues in her stomp. The whole city swayed with her, even when they pretended not to notice.

This wasn’t no TikTok shuffle.

This was ancestral.

This was holy.

This was Black girl praise on pavement.

And when she finished?

There was no bow.

No “thank you for watching.”

She just walked off, barefoot and blazing, like Moses leavin’ the mountaintop.

And the people stood there, dumbstruck, tryin’ to figure out what just happened. Some tossed dollars. Some crossed themselves. Some just wept.

Me? I whispered, “Thank you.”

'Cause I saw God that day.

Not in stained glass.

Not in a choir robe.

But in a woman with ash on her soles and heaven in her veins.

So next time you in New Orleans and you see her out there don’t just stare.

Feel.

Remember.

Let her rhythm wake something holy in you.

She ain’t crazy.

She ain’t high.

She’s just been touched by the same Spirit you keep pretendin’ you don’t feel.

She’s not dancin’ for your approval.

She’s dancin’ for your freedom.

She is the praise song.

The temple.

The truth.

And if you lucky enough to catch her spin

Stand still.

And let your soul dance too.