All the News from Dancing School

No one has every accused me of being set in my ways. In fact I sometimes think that I force my husband deeper into inertia by my proclivity for abrupt changes, like a ship that throws out its anchor to weather a storm. Deep in my silly putty heart however I retain a shape memory of my true self, so no matter how much I stretch, time seems to bring me back to the original mold. A few years ago I appeared to reinvent myself, but in truth I was merely returning to the me that lived inside, the inner child that my rigid upbringing taught me to fear.  I am comfortable with her now and have no intentions of retreating again. In fact you might say that I am almost free and more "me" than I have ever been in my life.  You note I said "almost".

Nothing more clearly illustrates this than my "dancing career". Way back in ninth grade I was introduced to the concept of "modern" dancing by my high school gym teacher. Our first "sock hop" was fast upon us and looking around at the nest of Southern Baptist adolescents, he formed an idea in his head, likely one of the few he ever had. He decided that he should "teach the kids to dance". If you are now have a picture in your mind of a cute made for TV movie called "Rocking High School", think again.  We're talking real life here guys.

The gym looked enormous in the bright morning light as I sat there with all the other thirteen year old girls, a knot the size and weight of a cannon ball in my stomach, gazing across the long wooden floor to the unfathomable faces of the thirteen year old boys on the other side. I had started first grade with most of them, except for one fourteen year olds that got held back somewhere along the way. Although a social pariah, he was really cute and I liked him despite the stigma of failure that hung over him. Just as I was thinking it might not be so bad if he asked me to dance, the teacher began barking instructions in his usual militaristic tone. "Anderson and Allen, front and center." He continued down the alphabet pairing us up by yelling out our last names.  I was frantic as I ran down the gender alphabet trying to figure out if the boy closest to me was also taller than me. Brandon, the intellectually challenged cutie I favored was already standing up with Bailey, K, so no chance there. Dread tuned to doom as he announced "Crume (me) and Dale, right here."

That had to be the longest walk either of us ever took. He came up to my chin, had a serious acne problem, and looked a like an bad version of Buddy Holly with a buzz cut. All of us stood as silent as sinners during a church prayer and likely all were twisting inside as we imagined those sinners would when they got to hell. At the time I could not imagine feelings other than my own as I stood praying for the last thing that I would not get, a short fast dance. From the gym loudspeakers we heard the familiar click of a needle hitting a 45. Our collective sighs of anguish were covered up by Frankie Avalon's pleading, "Venus if you will, please send a little girl for me to thrill.." You youngsters can google it or just take my word that it was a cheek to cheek kind of tune.

I have no idea how I got through that hour, but I do recall trying to put a spin on it around the dinner table that night. "We had dancing instead of gym today. I danced with three boys." I said this thinking to enhance my family's perception of my popularity. In truth we had been forced to change partners after two dances, switching to the next boy on our right. My father stopped his fork in mid air. The table grew very quiet.
"They had you dancing? In school?' This was my father's soft but angry voice, one I rarely heard.  He paused, picked his words, and annunciated them slowly and forcefully. "No good ever came of two people that close together on a dance floor." My father had spoken and that was that.  I am sure my mother intervened later so I was not forbidden to participate in high school dances, but it was very clear that he believed I was on the highway to hell. I imagine mother had to do quite a lot of persuading, but neither of them ever said another word about dancing. It was added to the long list of topics that were taboo in our home.

Most of my dancing after that was in front of American Band Stand, the must see how-to place for a generation of American teens. I watched it secretly of course, but by the time I was in college I thought I had a few moves. Unfortunately for me I started out at "Jesus Tech" so there was not a lot of opportunity to show them off. My first husband danced one time during our marriage when we were chaperones for the majority black university where he taught his first year out of UVA. I think it was the most fun we ever had during our marriage.

Divorced and dating again, my friends and I went to dance clubs for fun and to meet the men who were there to do the same. I danced with a lot of them up close and personal, but it was not until I was dating my husband that I found out I did not know how to follow. I was 26 and we were out for the evening with a married couple.  The husband suggested we exchange partners for a dance. On the floor with him he became immediately annoyed. "You're leading," he says, stating a fact. I realized this was the first man I had ever slow danced with who knew how to dance and was not doing it hoping to get my clothes off. I asked my husband later if that was true. "Sure," he said, "but I'm used to it and I don't mind."

Through trial and error we have improved our fast dancing and actually get compliments at times. Those times would be when Michael and Vanessa are not at the club too. They are the best of the new friends we have made. I like them both personally and they are the most incredible dancers I have seen in real life. Mostly we watch them as Vanessa spins 5 times in a row, dips and twirls effortlessly in Michael's hands. Vanessa confides that it is all Michael, she just follows and makes sure not to wear jewelry that might fly off during the spins. Michael basks in the compliments he gets from all the strangers who come up to speak to him in almost worshipful tones.

Last week, a lady asked to sit at our table, not an unusual occurrence as the place often gets packed on weekends. I welcomed her and we chatted between dances. She complimented me on how great my husband and I looked on the floor and then she made a comment. "I think at some point in your life you decided you were a dancer and your husband went along with you."Funny, I was thinking I was just a tiny bit mysterious but well, I have never been known for my poker face. I do know that Michael sees me all too clearly, but he is more subtle. A natural and diplomatic teacher, he gives my husband instructions on technique. He can see on my face that I want to be a dancer and would be except for the natural lack of grace that, at the tender age of 8, earned me the disgust of Miss Lila Jean, owner and instructor for the Lila Jean School of the Dance. After one particularly bad class I learned that I could not dance and neither could I sink into the floor and disappear when the elegant leotard clad teacher gestured toward me and spoke to my mother, "You are wasting your money on this one."I have always imagined that she said it in a French accent, although that is probably because she was a Yankee and up until that time I had never heard anyone speak who did not sound like the people on the NASCAR circuit.

I do wish Miss Lila Jean was still alive so she could have seen Michael pulled me from my husband's embrace last night and spin me a few turns around the floor while my man danced with Vanessa. I would prefer if she had not observed the deer in the headlights look on my face, but when it was done I behaved like a child who had just performed her first solo recital, the one I missed when I was 8 and my mother decided not to throw good money after bad. I admit I was relieved to be back in my predictable husband's arms for the next dance, for no matter how exhilarating it was the fact remains that I was not born to be a dancer. If I were I would be built a bit more willowy and a little less, uh... womanly. I would seem to float when I walk instead of remaining solidly on the ground and I would be much more compliant and a lot less stubborn. After all this time however I realize my father was wrong about a few things. If I had not been so fearful of his displeasure that day at breakfast I could have pulled the Bible that always sat on the table over in front of me and shown him this:

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.

I've paid my dues on the mourning and weeping. It's time to dance.