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When joy was resistance on the dance floor
When progressive political commentator Keith Edwards recently turned the New York City Pride March into a two-hour livestream of queer joy, he put a name on what he was doing. The GLAAD-backed broadcast was built, in part, for people watching alone in states where Pride can feel dangerous. “One of the most radical things you can do in a moment of extreme fear and a moment of authoritarianism,” he told The Advocate, “is to experience joy and happiness.”
Weeks earlier, RuPaul had posted that the only response to fascism was to party and dance, and was sharply criticized for it. Two moments, weeks apart, but the same uneasy question beneath both of them: Is joy resistance? Or is it what we call avoidance when we want avoidance to sound principled?
In a country where LGBTQ+ people are watching their rights stripped away in statehouses, drag performers turned into political targets and trans people used as campaign-season fuel, “go dance” can sound almost heartless. But queer people have had this argument before.
In a 2013 Washington Blade essay about coming out during the AIDS crisis, Dave Purdy remembered older gay men telling him it was wrong for his generation to dance, party or enjoy themselves while their gay brothers were sick and dying. He and his friends rejected that view. For them, the dance floor was not an affront. It was survival, self-love and something close to church.
During the AIDS crisis, gay nightclubs were not merely places to escape. They were informal mutual-aid networks, grief rooms and information exchanges. They were places where bodies marked by fear could breathe, move, touch and feel alive again. When the state was slow to act, conservative preachers’ sermons were cruel and much of the country looked away, these spaces helped people endure.
I know because, in the early 1990s, I ran one of those clubs on Long Island.
The club was loud, crowded and alive in the way only a queer room can be when the world outside has made everyone inside feel disposable. People arrived carrying the private weight of family rejection, HIV panic, religious shame, police harassment and the everyday terror of being seen too clearly in the wrong place.
Then the bass would start. The lights would move. Someone would laugh loudly near the bar. A drag queen would cut through the room like a flare. For a few hours, fear did not vanish. It changed shape. It became bearable.
To outsiders, nightlife often looks like escape. Sometimes it is. There are worse things than needing to escape a world trying to crush you. But queer clubs were never only about forgetting. They were places where people remembered each other: who was sick, who had disappeared, who had a new doctor, who was pretending to be fine.
I saw that attention at work every night. Power did not only sit in the office or behind the bar. It lived in the queens who could read a face from across the room, the regulars who noticed an absence and the staff who could feel the room change before anyone else did. That was vigilance. Not paranoia. Not panic. A communal intelligence.
That is the part America often forgets. Survival is not only the refusal to die. It is the insistence on remaining human while threatened.
The dance floor was not where the crisis disappeared. It was where the living found one another inside it. That is the part America often forgets. Survival is not only the refusal to die. It is the insistence on remaining human while threatened.
Bars hosted fundraisers. Drag performers passed hats. DJs, bartenders, door people, lovers, ex-lovers, activists and friends formed networks that were not always formal but were often lifesaving. In Orlando, the Parliament House Motor Inn, a gay resort and nightclub, became a common site for AIDS fundraisers in the 1980s and 1990s. This detail matters because it collapses the false divide between pleasure and care. A place outsiders might dismiss as decadent was also where money was raised, grief was gathered and a frightened community turned nightlife into a lifeline. Chosen family was not a slogan. It was logistics.
Research has linked synchronized movement with social bonding and increased pain thresholds, while studies of dance and movement therapy have found benefits for depression, anxiety and interpersonal functioning. What outsiders now call resilience was, for us, simply the nightly practice of keeping one another going.
That is why the word “joy” can be misleading if we make it too soft. Joy in queer nightlife was and is sweaty, sexual, improvised, defiant, sometimes reckless, sometimes holy. It did not erase grief. It gave grief somewhere to go.
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None of this means dancing is enough. A party will not stop authoritarianism. A drag show will not repeal anti-LGBTQ legislation. A nightclub cannot replace courts, organizing, voting, or protest. Joy without vigilance can become anesthesia. Joy without community can become branding. Joy without politics can become escape for those privileged enough to leave others behind.
But the answer is not to dismiss joy. It is to understand what kind of joy has power — a lesson America needs now.
The country is confronting a crisis. We are politically exhausted, increasingly isolated, distrustful of institutions and surrounded by reasons to be afraid. More people are discovering that they can follow every headline, understand every threat and still have nowhere to put the fear.
Queer nightlife offered one answer, imperfect but profound: Put the fear in a room. Let it breathe alongside other people’s fear. Let the body remember that it is more than a battleground.
The joy created in queer nightlife was collective. It required a room. It required witnesses. It required people watching the door, watching each other and noticing when the mood shifted before trouble arrived. Pleasure and protection had to coexist.
That was the real survival infrastructure; not joy by itself, but joy attached to community and vigilance.
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To survive a hostile world, people need pleasure and community, yes — but they also need history. They need to know what they are up against and what others survived before them. They need to care for each other while they watch the door. They need to build systems that do not depend on the benevolence of institutions that may never come.
The pushback against “party and dance” landed because it sounded like the whole plan. It cannot be the whole plan. But it can be part of one.
We did not dance through the AIDS crisis because things were fine. We danced because everything was not fine, because the body needed proof it still belonged to the living. We danced because grief without community becomes isolation, and isolation is where despair does its best work.
Dancing didn’t solve the crisis, but it helped us survive long enough to keep fighting.
This is not nostalgia. It is instruction.
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