There are 11-year-olds with dyed blue hair, ripped men in their 40s and dirtbag hipsters in their 20s, all hanging from plastic crimps on the walls of a high-ceilinged gym. As electronic dance music plays loudly, Gatorade and microbrews are being served to the audience. They dance and clap in unison. Some gather to chat and cheer at those climbing the walls around them. It’s exuberant, anarchic, and although I am not a climber, I am in the middle of it, sitting cross-legged on the sweaty floor.
I’m not attending the event, which was organized by a Brooklyn climbing gym, because I love dim lighting, relentless bass and beer – although I do like these things. I am here because my tween daughter has a gift for climbing, and my attending those competitions turned parties is a requirement – she’s still a kid – but it also further connects us to this community. Watching her do “beta” with dance-like hand and arm movements to figure out a climb before she gets on the wall or smile shyly at the crowd when she “tops” and waves to her friends make me proud: she is thinking with her body, but also anchored in a group of enthusiasts I had never known of before she showed them to me.
