The Last Dance (Sort of…)
If you’re a basketball fanatic like me, you’ve probably been watching the Bulls documentary that’s been playing on ESPN. “The Last Dance”. What a fitting name for one of the greatest swan songs of all time! The more of it I watched, the more it tugged on my heart to write this piece. It’s not that I didn’t want to write it. In fact, it’s been on my to-do list for two weeks. However, I can’t deny that on this day, May 8th, 2020, the day that was supposed to be the start of the greatest weekend of our lives for my peers and I, plus our families, I’m having trouble finding the words.
For the Class of 2020, we’ve been practicing our moves since the very beginning, trying new twirls and dips and steps, forward and backwards, side to side, and we’ve done it all together. We’ve savored each lesson and every moment. We practiced our dance moves until we cried and our feet bled but then we got back up and danced again anyway. All that preparation and planning, all that growth and progress, getting stronger and smarter, we did it all together.
What do you do when the last dance gets cancelled?
How do you say goodbye to the first place you felt like you mattered? How do you say goodbye to a family that you’re unsure if you’ll ever see again? How do you mourn the loss of the greatest four years of your life while simultaneously having to jump straight into the next chapter of your life with zero warning?
All of us have more questions than we have answers. In the midst of what feels like the world is crashing down and some people are dying by the hands of a virus and some people are dying by the hands of white supremacists, it feels selfish to still want to dance. It feels almost wrong. Every time this week that I’ve cried about not being able to dance, I’ve ended up crying harder because I felt silly for crying in the first place.
What I’ve learned over these past few months of quarantine (still unsure if this is good or bad) is that grief knows no bounds. You can be sad about your dancing shoes meeting an early retirement and still be equally upset about the senseless tragedy in the world. Despite what Ariana Grande may say, there are definitely still some tears left to cry. It’s okay to want to dance.
If you’ve ever attended the University of South Carolina, you know that this place is absolutely special for more reasons than I could ever put into words. It’s so much more than fun football games and Sandstorm-ing in Colonial Life Arena. It’s the fact that I go to a school with over 35,000 people and a full 10 minutes won’t pass without seeing a familiar face while walking on campus. It’s about traveling to distant countries alone and still seeing that familiar Gamecock logo on someone’s hat in an elevator or across the airport.
Right now, even and especially when it hurts, the University of South Carolina is still home. For me, it’s still the place I met my best friends. It’s still the place I found my purpose in life. It’s still the place that grew my faith even when circumstances looked bleak. It’s still home. It’s still the place we learned to dance.
For those who are the first in your families to dance, this agony hits much different. You’re probably wondering, “All the odds I beat, all the statistics I disproved, all those generational curses I broke, what was it all for?”
I remember touring UofSC and my mom and grandma walking campus with me in absolute awe. I grew up 12 minutes from campus but UofSC had always been untouchable and I never fathomed that it would ever be for me. My grandma lived in Columbia during a time where it was still a very novel concept for African-Americans to attend the University of South Carolina. Imagine what it must feel like to have not just one, but two granddaughters attending a school that she wasn’t even allowed to consider.
First-generation college students carry a burden that no single person should ever have to bear. There are generations of dreams and aspirations that we hold on our shoulders that are invisible to most, but to us, the weight is nearly crippling. It’s not JUST an education for us, it’s not JUST a degree, it’s not JUST four (or five or six, no judgment here) years. It’s stepping out on faith and saying that although this is the way it’s been done, I have a vision for how things COULD be. I have a vision of what the next generation of this family COULD look like and although it’s scary and nobody’s ever done this before, it’s going to be me because if I can just take this one step, the seeds for generational blessings could fall upon my household, generational curses can be broken, and glass ceilings will shatter. It’s rejecting the notion of just knowing how to survive and turning it into a passion to learn how to live fully and openly.
That selfless sacrifice still matters. Those walls are still coming down. You still did it.
This weekend is going to be rough for the Class of 2020. Some of the family members whose faces we were looking forward to seeing after walking out of Colonial Life Arena are no longer with us due to the c-word (you know which one) or some other ailment or circumstance. Some of us haven’t even ordered our caps and gowns yet. Some of us are still working and trying to keep our heads above water.
No matter what your circumstances may be, whether it’s on your porch or in your living room, whether you’re with your families in person or over Zoom, whether you’re popping champagne with your friends or sipping iced tea alone, grab your moment the best way you know how. Take your pictures. Reflect on the good times. Remember to dance. You deserve it. You trained for this. You’ve prayed for this. It’s yours.
Will we all get to dance together again in August? I hope so. Lord knows I hope so, but I don’t know. Even so, I know we’ll never forget the place and the people that gave us our dancing shoes and I know that the University of South Carolina will always be there to welcome us home.
Forever To Thee,
Lyric Swinton
Class of 2020
B.S in Sport & Entertainment Management & TRIO Opportunity Scholar
