A Glimmer Shared: A Memory in Music

Today’s story isn’t about a song carrying me forward. It’s about two songs that unlocked a memory — and a simple act of kindness that echoed through time. It was 1990. I was in seventh grade, having only moved to Gilroy, California, the year before. I had a tiny circle of friends — two girls I saw every day, and that was enough. We kept mostly to ourselves. Boys weren’t in the equation. One Friday night, I went to the school dance—expecting to find them there. But they never came. So I sat awkwardly on the bleachers, half-wishing for the night to end. I danced a little with kids I knew, but mostly I watched others laughing, spinning, belonging. Then—toward the end—he appeared. A boy I didn’t know sat beside me. He started talking. I don’t remember what he said. But then he asked me to dance. I accepted. We slipped into a group. Suddenly, I felt seen. I felt invited. I felt like I belonged.

We danced to Knockin’ Boots by Candyman (yes, that song) and Jump Around by House of Pain. I still raise my hand to that beat, like I learned that night. The energy was fierce. The laughter was full. I was alive in the moment. By the end, we went our separate ways. I never got his name. For weeks afterward, I passed boys in the hall, wondering, Was that him? He never spoke to me again. But every time I hear either of those songs now, I think of him. I think of the moment he saw a lonely girl and chose to make her part of the dance. He didn’t ask for my number. He didn’t expect anything. He quietly gave me something far more precious: dignity, worth, belonging. That night, I felt pretty. I felt seen. I felt worthy. I could’ve gone home in tears. Instead, I went home with stars in my eyes. Even now—thirty‑plus years later—that memory floods me. I return to that dance floor, to that shift from invisible to invited. That single gesture—small, nameless—became a glimmer I still carry. Because tiny kindnesses can cast long shadows, change how we see ourselves, and echo through a lifetime.