Hello, and welcome to “Bex Talks About Things They Know Very Little About”, a one episode podcast where I discuss things that I probably don’t have the authority to speak on. This episode will explore how dance has been used to connect the spirit and the physical form, and how Indonesian dance has historically been used to define femaleness and maleness, while playing with the boundaries of both.
For a little bit of background, I’m nonbinary, which basically means that I don’t fit into the Western definition of male or female. Growing up, I always felt like I didn’t fit in with the definition of femaleness that was forced on me, and had pretty intense discomfort in my gender presentation. That’s called dysphoria. When I came out and started presenting myself as more androgynous, I experienced gender euphoria: this state of intense happiness and bliss that came from my heart matching my body.
Now, you’re probably wondering: what does this have to do with dance?
Well, the concept of grounding your spiritual self in your physical self is very key to Indonesian dance, and to dance in general. In her Rensselaer Talk, Tomie Hahn, a renowned ethnomusicologist, begins by leading her audience through a mindfulness exercise. She then discusses how the empty internal space within us reveals fullness and form. Connecting the internal with the external is central to trans identity. Another example of bodily mindfulness in dance is in Tomie Hahn’s book, Sensational Knowledge. Here, she discusses how touch allows us to transcend the physical, to “enact something beyond the limits of the individual self” (Hahn, 42).
Bodily mindfulness in dance is certainly linked to trans identity; however, Indonesian dance takes it one step further with their philosophy of dance, as well as their treatment of gender boundaries in lengger and ngremo dance. Let’s start by talking about historical gender roles in Indonesia. While femininity has always been policed and penned in in Western culture, it has been viewed differently in Indonesia for centuries. The boundaries of gender have wavered and been defined and redefined. Specifically, in Java, women’s power to affect men through their sexuality has been recognized and celebrated for centuries (Sunardi, 33). Women have a long history of wielding martial and economic influence in Java as well (Sunardi, 35-37); however, women were also forced into specific roles.
While gender roles have always been defined in Indonesia, the policing of the female form came to a head when Suharto came to power in 1967. A conservative, authoritarian leader, Suharto made a scapegoat of politically active women and weaponized dance for the formation of the ideal of femininity (Sunardi, 39). Under Suharto, bedhaya dance was encouraged and even partially remade to portray women as proper, calm, and soft (Sunardi, 40). The ideal dance for diplomatic missions, bedhaya became a symbol of what every Indonesian woman should strive to be, spread hand in hand with political propaganda that villainized the Gerwani and other politically active women (Sunardi, 40).
This isn’t just the case in Suharto’s reign. According to Sunardi, performance and dance in Indonesia has always been a key site in which the official constructions of gender have been reinforced and female bodies have been controlled (Sunardi, 40). When I first learned about this, I was disappointed, but not surprised. As someone with a biologically female body, I am used to my body’s norms being dictated by other people; however, with a little more research, I learned about two types of dance in which femininity and masculinity fuse, and female bodies are portrayed as powerful. There two types of dance are lengger and ngremo.
In watching a few videos on ngremo and lengger, I learned that each dance both reinforces and undermines the dominant norms of masculinity and femininity, playing with the boundaries of gender. I will focus primarily on ngremo in this episode, but I will also discuss lengger from the perspective of a renowned Indonesian dancer, Rianto, so stay tuned.
While watching videos of ngremo, I noticed that female dancers performed masculinity through sharper movements and wider stances. Their makeup was a blend of the masculine and feminine, with blush and eyeliner contrasting to drawn on mustaches and facial hair. As an androgynous presenting individual, I was immediately intrigued, and learned that, according to Palupi, ngremo dance was actually used as a way for female dancers to reclaim their femininity while asserting their power (Sunardi, 59). By dancing in more masculine styles, female ngremo dancers redefine what it means to be an Indonesian woman.
In addition to ngremo dance, lengger dance is a traditional Indonesian ritual folk dance, in which men and masculine bodies perform as women. One famous lengger performer is Rianto, a genderfluid dancer and the inspiration for the Oscar-nominated film, “Memories of My Body”. In and of itself, lengger is a beautiful dance form, but I will be focusing on what Rianto says about their experience with lengger, and how it translates in their gender identity. In their Ted Talk on Lengger dance, Rianto describes lengger as “coming from the merging and fusing of masculinity and femininity… I try to bring this merging of masculinity and femininity in one body.” I kept listening. Then Rianto said this on their gender identity: “Within my body, I have never differentiated my female side and masculine side. For me, if I just recognize my body as male, then it feels unfair for my body. If I limit myself to only identify my body to have maleness, I feel bad for my body. Here (they circle their hands around their chest), there is a process of life that happens. Within each body of ours, there are many elements. I wish to teach so that we understand and become to love our bodies.” This perfectly captured how I felt about my own identity, my own body. Nonbinary identity is changeable and fluid from person to person, but Rianto’s relationship with their own body and their dancing struck a chord with me.
There are many aspects of Indonesian dance that appeal to me. Specifically, the fluid boundary between the masculine and feminine in ngremo and lengger dance made me feel seen as a nonbinary individual. The Indonesian philosophy of grounding the spiritual self in the physical self through dance is a perfect parallel to grounding one’s gender identity in a physical body through gender euphoria. I’ve been dancing for almost eleven years, and Rianto says it best: “We dance not only for the sake of performance, but for our lives.” Dance is an embodiment of identity in a physical body, a fusion of the spiritual with the physical. As a female-bodied person, the policing of femaleness during Suharto’s reign was disappointing, but unsurprising. It is incredible to me that female dancers of Indonesia now perform masculinity to show their own strength, and gives me immense hope and pride for the future of gender identity.
