La mejor noche en Varadero

Lights are down. I have just been escorted to my front row, stage right seat. Although I know that what awaits will be infiltrated with extremely problematic racial dynamics, and blatant exoticization of women of color, I try to justify me being here by telling myself that I’ve never been to a cabaret. I am seated for no more than one minute, when the music starts and the lights come on. The dancers quickly emerge from both sides of a blood red velvet curtain. My initial excitement quickly sizzles away as I think damn, these women do not want to be here at all right now. In fact, I think they would rather be anywhere else but here right now. The sign behind me reads, “La mejor noche en Varadero.” I’m only at the Hotel Internacional for one night, but if I were here for more I doubt this would be the best night in Varadero. Why is the sign behind me? It’s almost as if this sign was purposefully placed there as motivation for these cabaret dancers, knowing that they would need it. The show just started and over half of them have absolutely no expression on their faces, like they have done this a million times before, like they are performing a monotonous chore that has become routine. Twirl twice on beat this, stick chest out on beat that. It has become so mechanical and repetitive that they don’t even bother to stay on beat. It’s hard to watch. The syncopated rhythm of their steps makes them look so messy. If I were able to hear it through the music, it would sound like wild popping popcorn. Ironically, their worn costumes are different shades of blue, a color that has come to be associated with sadness.

But their form tells me that they are in fact good dancers. However, the best of dancers would probably not feel that way if they had to wear costumes that looked like hand-me-down-down-downs, if they had to perform with several holes in their fishnet stockings, if their leotard had a gaping hole right under their titty tassle adorned left breast, if their shoes were so worn that it felt as though they had no soles to dance on, while making sure not to trip over the exposed wires on the stage. I keep watching and become fixated on one particular dancer. Out of all the others who have at least flashed a smile once or twice, her face has not changed. Her expression is blank except for her right eyebrow, which is arched ever so slightly. Where is she from? Where does she live? Does she have any children? What is she missing right now, because she has to be here tonight dancing for me?