When I came up with my new mini-slogan, “There are many ways to be an Irish dancer,” it came from many, many years of trying to figure out where I want to position myself in this wonderful, complex world of Irish dance. A slogan is one thing, but explaining the decades of experience and lessons that led to it is another.
Recently a good friend and longtime collaborator asked me why it took me so long to start teaching again. I took about a ten-year hiatus, not from dancing, but from teaching and performing regularly. This break came shortly after an intense year in the University of Limerick’s MA in traditional Irish dance program—a fantastic program that both built me up and broke me down, and left me wondering what kind of Irish dancer I wanted to be.
It’s really been a question about identity. I’ve always called myself an Irish dancer—it was in middle school that I began to identify this way, as my main personality trait. But over many years of dancing in different spaces and with different people and in different styles, I observed the power dynamics at play in our community (or communities, because they are distinct) and I became terrified of doing something wrong. Irish dance is full of rules and we are obsessed with “tradition.”
I mostly consider myself a traditionalist, though what I consider traditional at this point in my dancing life may surprise you (more on that in a future post). I love the “traditional” aspects of Irish dance because I love learning about different dancers’ steps and stories, past and present. But if you listen to everyone who has an opinion about what is traditional, you’ll become petrified and unable to do anything without second guessing yourself—or at least I did.
During the pandemic, I, like all of us, found myself dancing alone in my house. Rather than feel lonely without people around, I actually felt inspired. I think this was in part because I started to tap into what I actually wanted to express with my dancing, without the critical eye of people around me telling me what was or wasn’t allowed. More specifically, I started to feel different styles converge in my dancing—not from one choreographed piece to another, but through playful improvisation to the changing dynamics in a single set of tunes. One moment I felt hoppy and sharp like a feis dancer; the next, elegant and smooth like a festival style dancer; then, rhythmic and grounded like a sean nós dancer. Isn’t it beautiful that, among its varied and diverse styles, Irish dance can have all these qualities? But—are we allowed to mix them???
Just as we were coming out of the pandemic, it hit me all of a sudden that no one is going to take Irish dancing away from me. I realized that I can do whatever I want; I am not going to lose Irish dance in my life. I can always retreat to my little room in my house and dance. Had I reached the age of no longer caring, or was it something else? I suddenly felt liberated from this fear that if someone accused me of doing something “outside the tradition,” they were somehow going to take it away from me. And, somehow, knowing that I already had it in me (and always will) made me feel more confident about going out there and seeking community again, or even building my own.
There’s a lot to unpack here. I think it is not uncommon for traditional dances to be subjected to a lot of rules and opinions about how they should be preserved and practiced, especially among cultures that have been under threat. There seems to be a need for ownership and authority to make the rules, which I believe arises from a sense of insecurity. But there has also, naturally, been a lot of innovation going on all the time, whether it was intentional or not, because dancers are human beings. People don’t always realize that, for such a small island, Ireland is incredibly diverse, and dance as an aspect of Irish culture reflects that diversity. I believe in learning why people feel strongly about one style or another, but I also believe in understanding why people disagree. My interest is not so much in consensus on what makes a dance traditional, but instead in what people disagree about. That’s where the real cultural substance is. I believe that once people stop debating a culture, it’s no longer alive.
It’s hard to be in the midst of debate. It’s uncomfortable and often enraging. But it’s usually the most productive place to be, if we keep an open mind.
The reason I go on and on about the “many ways to be an Irish dancer” is because, not only do we have “competitive and non-competitive dance” (a common distinction that mostly pits the wig-wearing step dancers against everyone else), but people dance in all kinds of spaces in tons of different styles. Those styles may be divided by region, county, or even individual. To name a few, I’m thinking of Munster and Ulster, Clare and Connemara, and Molyneaux and Comerford; danced in hotel ballrooms, pubs, kitchens, outdoor festivals, or church basements. I want to learn about all of these styles and understand where they come from. I want to be as informed as possible to expand the possibilities for me to dance the way I want to dance.
I am aware that there is an idea that an “Irish dancer” is someone who participates in the formal, structured style of competitive Irish dance promoted by organizations associated with Gaelic League nationalism, and everyone else who dances to Irish music in other ways participates in other “dances of Ireland.” But I think we’re splitting hairs here. I’d rather not use that definition, mostly because I don’t love excessive wordsmithing, but also because it further marginalizes those “other” dances. At some point, we have to choose the language we want to use and clarify how we are defining that language along the way.
What do we all have in common? We dance to traditional Irish music (equally complex, and another topic for another day). We have some similar vocabulary—heels and toes come to mind. But some of us enjoy the structured uprightness of competitive step dance, others enjoy the loose improvisational qualities of sean nós; some of us want to dance solo, others want to dance socially. Some of us like to be graceful and smooth, some of us want to hop up and down. Some of us want to do all of it. Yes, some styles are more appropriate for certain spaces. We should know when we are dancing in one style versus another and respect where those styles come from. But, at the end of the day, I believe we should dance the way we feel.
The more time I spend practicing, learning, teaching, and performing Irish dance (and now also learning Irish music!), the more depth I find. I have spent a good portion of my life studying other dance cultures, and, in fact, it has been those experiences that have made me see how much more Irish dance has to offer. I guess I had to step out of it to see it and look for it. The depth of potential knowledge, exploration, and inspiration is immense, all within our apparently tiny world of Irish dance.
This summer, I’m going to write a series of essays about the depth and breadth of Irish dance styles—how I define them and how I want to challenge those very definitions; how I think we can all find our place as movers to this genre of music; and finally, how we can open up more space for more people. Over my decades of dancing, I’ve seen so many people become discouraged because of some real or perceived rules about how to dance, and I’m feeling called to advocate more for this dance I love so much. I have my own opinions and preferences about how I’d like to see Irish dance done, but mostly I refuse to put anyone or any style down. I’d rather spend my time sharing and educating about Irish dance (and continuing to learn!) than drawing lines and creating divisions.
If you know me, you know that I take dancing very seriously. As with so many aspects of culture, dance is political, it is resistance, it is identity. But, as I tell my students all the time, the thing I take most seriously in dance is a sense of play. If it’s not enjoyable, then why are we doing this?