Let’s Get the Party Started (Kasi uuwi na ako)

Flashback: Pre-’99

Finally, a rare night out. My parents actually said yes, and I was determined to make every second count.

I had to get there before 9 PM because door fees kicked in after that, and my high school budget only covered a cheap burger with friends before heading to the venue: Hard Rock Cafe in Glorietta 4.

Dancing was the highlight, the mission, the vision, the whole reason for being there. We sat there watching for the signals: the lights dimming, the quiet nods between staff, and tables being cleared away to make room for the floor. We knew what was coming. The music started, a head-bopping, foot-tapping beat. It was enough to get people swaying, but everyone was still too shy to really go for it. The warm-up was fine, but I was on a clock.

My negotiation with my dad earlier that day had been a high-stakes gamble:

Papa: Ano oras ka uuwi?
Me: 12.
Papa: Ok. Sunduin kita ng 10:00.
Me: Pwede 11?

He gave me that look, the one that warned me I might be risking my small window of freedom by pushing my luck. Still, I tried to negotiate an extension. “Papa, pwede mga 10:45?” He was already looking at something else, and I took his distracted “OK” as a win.

Now, back to this moment. Why was no one dancing? I could feel it. Everyone was waiting for someone to make the first move. The dance floor sat there, wide open, daring someone to step into its empty space. I could see everyone’s limbs twitching, itching to move, but nobody wanted to be first. It was calling out for me, loud and clear.

I checked the time, and it was almost 9:30. Part of my agreement with my parents was that I had to stick to their terms, so I needed to know exactly how much time I had left. I ran over to the payphones near the restrooms, dialed our home number, and heard my dad’s voice on the other end.

Me: (shouting over the loud music) PAPA! PWEDE 11:00, PLEASE?
Papa: What? It’s so loud I can’t hear you. Paalis na ako ng bahay. Be there in 30 minutes!
Me: NOOOOOO! HUWAG MUNA!!! Pa, wait! Hello? Hello? HELLOOOO?

He hung up. I put the phone back on the receiver, noticing a short queue had formed behind me. I had exactly 30 minutes left to unleash a week’s worth of unspent dance moves. Every minute wasted on hesitation was a minute stolen from me.

I scanned the crowd for anybody who looked like they could get the party started, but they all stayed in the shadows. Someone had to be the sacrifice. I hoped someone from our group would lead, but instead, they turned to me with a playful push, “Ikaw na, GO!”

Maybe they meant it as a joke. Maybe they didn’t expect me to take it seriously. But I had a curfew. I had a mission. If I wanted to be shy and self-conscious, I could do that at home.

So I went for it. I broke for the center of the floor like a shaken soda bottle finally being uncapped. I wish I could say I danced like Jessica Alba in Honey, but it was probably closer to Napoleon Dynamite.

Within seconds, the dance floor was packed. Maybe I looked ridiculous (I’m sure I did, but so what?). Still, I had fun, and that’s the only thing I choose to remember. No social media back then meant no proof, no judgment, just pure, unfiltered, and completely undocumented joy.

I left the dance floor, sweaty and satisfied, my feet aching from the glorious chaos. I knew my time was up. My dad was waiting for me outside, and I had to make a run for it. The real world was pulling me back, but I had done what I came to do. I had my fill, and there was not a speck of regret.

There would be many more dances after that night, but that one remains my favorite story because, for once, I felt like a badass.

The sacrificial tribute to the dancefloor gods.