Field Notes: For the Love of Dance

Imagine being twenty, walking home from a community dance a little buzzed and without a worry in the world. You land in your childhood bed after a night in a hall that has seen generations of feet stomping and many spilled drinks.

In many parts of the world, women still cannot walk freely after dark. On Haida Gwaii, my biggest worry might have been bumping into a bear on the way home. A stark contrast to Vancouver, where I rarely hit the streets as a student late without a girlfriend, and always called them when I made it back to my flat. In many small towns across Canada, dances were one of the few places women could go out, feel safe, and see everyone they knew in one room. On Haida Gwaii, that tradition continues. A shared sense of safety that is still a privilege in much of the world.

Our First Dances

Our student council’s first dance happened in a community hall chair storage room. No windows, but plenty of fire exits. Kris Olsen, our youth leader at the Teen Centre and an education assistant at the high school, guided us through it. He taught us never to open all the pop. Whatever we did not sell, Ray at Causeway would take back and reimburse us. Our first lesson in budgeting and cash flow.

We sold snacks to our friends, packed into a sweaty room, and made memories. Those poor teachers who chaperoned those nights! The youth bands in the high school subsequently performed at local events, and we danced there too. We heard stories from older generations about dances at the Legion. community halls, and local bars nearly every Friday and Saturday. Dances were a way of life on Haida Gwaii.

When the Music Stopped

When the pandemic hit, the music stopped everywhere. Community halls closed, volunteers burned out, and public health orders kept people apart longer than anyone expected. The habits we built around gatherings disappeared almost overnight. It was about safety for our communities. But you couldn’t help but notice the weekends that once revolved around events, sport, and dances went quiet.

By the time restrictions lifted, the cost of running a dance had changed. Insurance rates, liquor licensing, and venue rentals had all climbed. Volunteers were fewer, older, and more cautious about taking on liability or perhaps a 2 a.m. door shift - understandable. At the same time, our social habits had shifted. Across Canada, younger generations are drinking less, more people choose zero-proof options, and communities are redefining what “a good night out” looks like (Statistics Canada, 2023). This shift also makes community events safer and more inclusive, especially for women.

Hospital Day 2023

My former mentor, now colleague, Kris Olsen chaired Hospital Day, a fundraiser for our island hospitals. I decided to join the committee to run the event in June in 2023. I was decorating the hall on the Friday before the event, when I received word that a beloved community member and allied health professional had passed. suddenly. And by beloved, I mean by everyone. Bonnie Olson was known for her unwavering commitment to community wellbeing and especially to the safety of women. She was the kind of person who showed up for others, whether it was through her work, her advocacy, or the way she quietly made people feel seen.

Her passing stopped us in our tracks. There was no easy answer for what to do next. The parade route passed directly by the home on Oceanview Drive where her family had gathered. The event was meant to celebrate doctors, nurses, and health professionals, the very circle she belonged to. Kris and I both felt that continuing was impossible. The loss was too close and too profound. We made the decision to pause, knowing that no celebration could take place in the shadow of such grief. It was the right thing to do, even if it was hard. We let the community grieve, and we promised that when the time was right, we would be back.

The Dance Returns to Daajing Giids

As promised, planning began again for Hospital Day, this time to be held at the end of August. We pulled cakes from the freezers and retrieved items once again from our storage locker. People asked organizers for a dance. “We can’t,” we said. “Hospital Day cannot run alcohol events.” I went around to various groups asking if they wanted to run a dance. “They don’t make money like they used to.”

Over coffee with a guy who makes everything happen behind the scenes, we came up with a solution. We just needed a cause. Bonnie. Let’s do a benefit dance. We don’t need a non-profit to do this.

Posters promoting the Hospital Day dance at Hospital Day earlier that day.

Mike, Kim and I agreed to diversify our risk. The event could happen by each contributing about $1,000 cash, floating liquor purchases on a personal credit card. If we have to cancel, we’re not all out three grand. When we told folks we’d run it but we needed their help, quickly Kris and other volunteers helped at the door. Matt Davies slung tickets at baseball games and at the grocery store. Duane of the Skidegate Saints advised us on alcohol purchases and how to get a liquor license, and I promised I’d bring my breakdowns back to him. The Saints showed up in-kind and served drinks that night. Greg and the band gave us a discount to our group and played some of the first live music since the pandemic. Mike Hennigan revived the light system and we saw that old disco ball spin again. Verica donated decorations. I used a simple eighties Spotify playlist for the intermissions, with some Tina Turner and Meatloaf filling the gaps. If you don’t know, Haida Gwaii used to have Tina Turner tribute nights. I never had the opportunity to join those, but boy do we know a bit of Tina will erupt the dance floor! Mostly I was stuffing bills into the dash of our minivan, trying to count our revenues so we could pay back everyone at the end of the night and contribute something to the family.

Matt Davies said, “Give me tickets, I’ll sell them at baseball.” Before we even needed to spend our money, we had a thousand dollars in hand to rent the hall and cover the damage deposit. An anonymous donor gave another thousand for designated drivers. We raised the door price from fifteen to twenty dollars. I explained why. Making money only from alcohol sales leads to ethical gray areas. We needed to charge more for the experience and provide more value. We needed proof of concept.

That night, I drank 0 percent Corona, watched as even pregnant women enjoyed the same, and we danced until our feet literally bled. I took notes on everything. Revenues were about $12,000. After paying expenses and tipping the band for an exquisite night, we deposited $4,940 to Bonnie’s family account on Monday morning.

The Economics of Dances

Dances can make money. They make money when the cause is right. But maybe the goal is not always to make money. When we were students, we did not sell alcohol. We sold snacks. We created an experience.

In 2024, the community club board brought back regular Daajing Giids community hall dances in partnership with the Skidegate Saints. The community club volunteers donated their time for door and security. The club waived the hall rental. Cash flow became less of a concern. We had another Hopsital Day dance and Halloween Dance. I showed up to each one as a volunteer, too. The Saints took on the biggest liability by running the bar and the club recognized their cause, opting to support that group to earn more. Incentive to bring dances back. Together, they created an important social capital service.

Community dances are not just about profit. They are about reciprocity, memory, and belonging.

The Currency of Trust

Research across Canada shows that shared community events build belonging and trust. The Canadian Rural Revitalization Foundation describes local events like dances and fairs as “core elements of rural social infrastructure,” places where residents renew connections and collective identity (CRRF, 2024).

These kinds of gatherings strengthen what the Canadian Index of Wellbeing calls “community vitality,” the capacity of people to work together for the common good. Dances are not just about nostalgia. They are small-scale economic ecosystems that run on shared risk and mutual investment. When people each contribute a thousand dollars to float a dance, they are not just financing an event. They are financing trust.

For the Love of Dance

Before I fell in love with academics, I fell in love with dance. Growing up in a town where school dances and community events were my only outlet, these were the moments where I first understood both freedom and value. I want others to feel that too. Dances may not make a large profit, but they generate something harder to measure.

They unite generations and remind us who we are when we need it most. Parents, teachers, elders, and even youth all share the same floor for a few hours, moving in rhythm to something larger than themselves. As a woman who can walk home safely after a night of music, I do not take that freedom lightly. It is built from generations of care. Safety in these spaces is influenced by people like Bonnie, and by my own mother, who once fled an abusive relationship and found her way to freedom. Their courage in supporting women in their work or in their lives, reminds me that my safety is not a given. It is built through the choices we make as communities.

We can shift the economics so that more of the money comes from the door, not from the bar. We can serve 0 percent options. We can celebrate having more designated drivers. Maybe dances do not need to make a lot of money. Maybe they just need to make meaning. Because when the lights come on and the last song fades, the measure of success is not only what we earned, but also what was felt.