Attending Garfield high School is like owning a sports car; you look exponentially filthier than someone from another school. Drop the name of your school in casual conversation with a student from the Eastside, and you get immediate authority on subjects like basketball and hazing. Although some claim that Garfield has lost a bit of its flashy reputation in recent years, our name remains intact in the suburbs of Kirkland and Redmond. Our basketball team dominates. But while our reputation seems to be holding up alright in certain aspects, it is in mortal danger of suffering in another.

Garfield dances are renowned throughout the city. They are known to be the most crackin’ dances in the district, where students can get loose and get low, without fear of excessive administrative ridicule. And while they’re regulated and chaperoned (all school rules still apply…), students basically have the liberty to dance however they choose. But on Friday the 13th, Garfield threw what could be the worst dance in recorded school history.

It started well enough: A couple hundred students flocked to the Experience Music Project, the location of our ill-fated Tolo. Rumors of stricter dance regulations and wristbands had been circulating the halls for weeks, casting a shadow over the otherwise giddy mood that accompanies every dance. Many students had been discouraged from going, so my posse and I were pleasantly surprised to note the size of the line when we pulled up. My ridiculous shoes weren’t even bothering me yet.

But upon entering the dance at approximately nine thirty-five, the frightening rumors proved themselves true when purple and white plastic wristbands were slapped on my arm by a rather smug-looking chaperone. “Try and keep this on, ‘mmkay sweetie?” she sneered. I had been reassured by my peers that this dance would be the same as all the others, and the new dancing regulations were merely a way for the administration to soothe a recent riot from the PTSA, who made a stir about the atrocity of “freak dancing.” I assumed that the rules would merely ban the freaking extremes, such as writhing on the floor or groping your partner’s genitals, acts that I am either physically incapable of performing or would never do in public. So I grabbed my boo and hit the floor, ready to partake in some good old getting’ low. But before we even touched, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“We don’t dance like that here,” said a motherly-looking chaperone. “Please extend your arm.” And with that, our wristbands were snipped.

From that point on, my peers and I watched in dismay as our dance started to feel and look more like a rave. As the DJ bumped the Cha-Cha-Slide and some techno classics, I felt like I wasn’t at a Garfield dance, but back in middle school. What was once bump ‘n’ grind and sexiness became flailing limbs and awkwardness.

I did manage to evade the chaperones and Ms. Woods for most of the dance and get a few good dance sessions in. The hide-and-seek dynamic of chaperone and student added a new thrill to the atmosphere; it was like playing fugitive.

But leaving the dance, I felt overwhelmed with embarrassment.

Does this crackdown on all things freak-worthy mean the resignation of Garfield’s crown of School with the Bombest Dances? Are we about to lose our well-earned and deserved reputation of filthiness? Are we destined to resemble the schools that we take pride in being different from and better than?

My school pride is on the line here. It’s sad that one depressing Tolo experience makes me question the coolness of my school.

By cutting my wristband, the chaperone also cut my cockiness and ego. I will now have trouble looking an Eastsider in the eye and implying that we are cooler than them.

But hey, at least we’re still good at basketball.