A Friendly Face

I have written a draft about the November Dance Party, but like the traditional Christmas fruitcake, which is first baked in November, it needs time to mature before being served. There were some unforeseen challenges on Sunday, and as we know, poetry is “emotion recollected in tranquility.” (William Wordsworth.)

So this morning I shall write about a local swing-dancing social–and by local, I mean it took me less than an hour to get there by bus and foot. The bus came after 8 PM, and I got to the hall before 9.

Edinburgh is in the grip of a cold snap, and it was a dark and frosty night. I wore Canadian winter boots and a red puffy coat resembling a duvet: probably the least attractive garment I own. However, I was also wearing a new-to-me Lindy Bop dress and clutching a pair of silver-sparkle Keds, so I felt rather festive.

When I arrived at the ex-church’s hall (Edinburgh abounds in beautiful ex-churches, most of them formerly belonging to the erstwhile Calvinist Church of Scotland), I saw through the doorway some limber lass doing the splits. The room was more crowded than I remember, and the dancers appeared to be rather advanced. However, after scanning the room, my eye fell upon a familiar face, and I felt a sense of connection, to use a swing-dance word.

My young friend–and I should explain to readers that whenever I write “my young friend” I mean someone young enough to have been my own child had I (like my mother) married at 22 and continued on having children until 40 or so. However, I did not marry at 22, and I never had any children of my own, so I have more in common with childless 20-somethings than I do with mothers, at least in term of time at my disposal. But I am beginning to look like a crumpled handkerchief, so I have no illusions that I seem younger than my age, etc.

Anyway, my young friend had arrived before me and had been promptly invited by a man to dance, to which he said “Sorry, no.” (I should also explain to new readers that in the local swing-dancing scene today, there is a determined effort to erase the differences between men and women, replacing the concepts with the terms “lead” and “follow,” as well as heteronormativity, the complementarity of the sexes, and all those other unfashionable philosophies to which traditional Catholics cling.

When I was my young friend’s age, men were only ever asked to dance by other men if they strayed into a gay bar, but now all public spaces in the western world are a gay bar. I even found an engaging piece of female-to-“male” trans propaganda on my Facebook stream yesterday. The author started having her hair cut shorter and shorter until she finally got a man’s haircut. She then put on a man’s T-shirt, stared at herself in the mirror and had a moment of “soft recognition” of her true self, which was the most feminine phrase I had read in ages. What a girly thing to say. I could out-butch her any day of the week and my hair is in braids.)

But I digress. Back to the dance hall, which was rather cold from where I sat watching my young friend bravely cross the hall to ask a young lady to dance and then the skilful moves of the dancers in front of me. But eventually my young friend asked me to dance, and after a tune or two, I showed him the lesson I had planned for the November Dance Party before my co-teacher was struck down, during Mass, by hemicrania. Demonstrating the move was quite fun, and my young friend caught on very quickly. I also discussed the lesson the lesson that did get taught–which was merely the basic 6-count move of rock-step, triple step, triple step, plus the tuck turn–and admitted that these are difficult to get right if you have never, ever done before.

I then remembered that, under the auspices of this particular swing-dance society, although in a different hall, I myself had found rock-step, triple step, triple step extremely difficult to relearn (just as I found them extremely difficult to learn the first time at some hall at the University of Toronto in the 1990s). I felt extremely stupid, and only stuck with lessons because I was my then-single friend’s wingwoman. By 2013 I had hated dance classes all my life, probably because of the voice in my head telling me how stupid and clumsy I was. But eventually–I am not sure when, but after I began to read books about learning*–the voice disappeared.

Another mercy is that I have lost any inclination whatsoever to ask strangers to dance, and try to confine myself to saying “Well, what do you think?” to friends only after two or three tunes have elapsed. As I have mentioned before, I sit squarely in my chair and derive enjoyment from watching the dancers, especially the ones I like. When someone asks me to dance, I count it as a bonus, and try to remember not to look at my feet.

I have been asked to dance more often these days, and I think it is because this particular society is smaller and friendlier. Part of “smaller” means fewer women, which–despite the ruling ideology–means fewer follows. Last night I spoke to a woman who had led another woman, quite skilfully, I thought, asking her if leading was her preferred role. (More swing-dance terminology.) She positively sputtered with amusement as she told me most decidedly that it was not.

The last tune ended at 9:58, I thanked my partner, and there was a flurry of activity as the regulars collected and stacked chairs. The atmosphere was one I know so well: Let’s Not Annoy The Janitor Waiting To Lock Up. I stacked a couple of chairs myself, and then set off for a bus stop, escorted by my young friend.

I have recently written about going to dances alone, so keen readers already know that I don’t. However, I am always happy to be a friendly face so none of my friends, young or old, will feel alone at a dance event. Proper social dancing–with steps to be mastered and improved–is really great fun and excellent exercise, but it is so difficult for so many to brave a room full of strangers, especially as a novice.

*I have written elsewhere that I had an intellectual revolution when I discovered that the brain is plastic, even unto death, and most things can be learned through smart planning, good coaching and hard work. You are not born permanently “good at” some things and “bad at” other things. Your sibling might have a mysterious gift called “talent” but if you compare his or her practice time to your own, you may discover that this “talent” is 90% effort–enjoyable effort, sure, but effort all the same. Meanwhile, it is possible that you have/had terrible teachers, but your worst enemy in learning any skill is likely to be the Mean Voice in your head insulting you until you want to cry. Drive it away.

We all have “two left feet” until we have mastered the steps, just as no Anglo-Saxon can be expected to speak conversational Foreign until having dozens and dozens of conversations in Foreign. (And when it comes to languages, conventional classroom lessons are just preparation for that. They don’t work on their own. But once again I digress!)