I took Theatre my second semester in college. It wasn't an acting class. And truthfully, by no means, did I learn anything interesting at all. Like most lower-level classes, it was required. But my professor did cover one topic that instantly delighted me when I saw it on the syllabus: Carnival. Not the European Mardi Gras stuff. Not the blow-up trampoline house events with pretty face paint. And certainly not the cruise line.

What he spent a glorious (for me) five classes discussing was the floats, the masquerade costumes, the dancing, the colors, the events, and best of all—the soca music.

"Soca?" my non-West Indian friends ask when I tell them my favorite genre of music. "What a shame," I always think. I feel like soca music is a secret club you're either born into or invited to when blessed with one extremely awesome West Indian friend. If you're not in either of those categories, you probably never knew about the happiness, freedom, and even pure sweat it brings—until this article.

Words won't do this musical fantasy any justice, but here's trying. You ever heard someone say, "Dance like no one's watching?" Probably. But you've never done it unless you've heard the likes of the infamous Machel Montano (personal favorite).

Though Soca is a fairly new genre to the US its, known to have its earliest roots in the 1960s, it has dominated pop culture enough for most in-touch-with-music people to have at least heard Kevin Lyttle's "Turn Me On," Rupee's "Tempted to Touch," or Jamesy P's "Nookie." Fast forward sixty years, and artists like Machel collaborate with Billboard artists like Ariana Grande today (Major Lazer's All My Love, FYI).

West Indians are easily the happiest people in the world. Aside from Instagram-picture-worthy beaches, delicious cuisine, and perfect year-round weather, we have our Soca. And our Soca, honestly, is a fair representation of us.

"Everybody jump, it's a play pen / happy like pickni pon weekend," sings Popcaan in Ravin. That's exactly it, though. Our music makes us have so much fun and makes us so ecstatic that people not in that secret club of Soca just won't get it. By the way, pickni are kids... Soca raves make us happy like kids on the weekend. Welcome to the secret club.

Soca can be political in its lyrical genius. "Di fussin an di fightin an di war muss done / come leh we live as one," where Alison Hinds (Togetherness) discusses the "love and unity" soca prides itself on. The genre can be empowering. "Free yourself gal, you have class and you have pride / come together cause we strong and unified," where she sings about the power and unity of women (Roll It Gal).

But no matter what message is being celebrated—a good time, world peace, or women's empowerment, you'll hear the artist encouraging winning and waving and jumping all the more. That's how we celebrate our life, our energy, and ourselves—through our music and through the feeling it gives us. Whether we are at a party, running miles at the gym, or trying to sit still on the train, we feel it. Because Soca is more than a genre (or a secret club), it's the most free, exhilarating feeling.

So, to my Theatre professor—no, our dancing is not strange and inappropriate. Don't call us hooligans or vagabonds (Ricardo Drue's "Vagabond"). It is not us, no, no, blame it on the music, oh, oh (Rupee's "Blame it On the Music"). We dance the way we dance because we feel our music deep in our soul. There is no other way to dance to this music than to dance like no one is watching. There is no other joy as great as the freedom of soca music.