Once again, I was reminded of Michael Platt’s essay about music and dancing:
In all dancing, the dancers move to the same music; mere individuals are formed into a community. But there are so many ways of arranging a community — or not. In all dancing in the West, at least since the Renaissance, the couple exists between the music and the individual; in all this dancing you have to co-ordinate yourself to your partner and, often enough, you and your partner have to coordinate yourselves to other couples (think of square dancing). The first points toward marriage, the second toward a village.
This time I was reminded by Mr McLean’s public proclamation that he would prefer if I not go by myself to a swing-dance class in Glasgow. My esteemed spouse is not in the habit of giving orders in private, let alone in public, but so great was his anxiety on this occasion that he seemed to be appealing to the village, or young representatives of it, to back him up.
I don’t remember the exact words, but it was along the lines of, “O ye young Traditional Catholic men who have honoured our invitation to dine, witness how I ask my wife not to do something and note how swift she is to disobey me.”
So naturally I said I wouldn’t go after all, or at least I wouldn’t go unless a Glasgow friend came with me, so as to put Mr McLean’s mind at ease. The representatives of the village made no memorable remark, possibly realizing that their role was to silently support their fellow Trad Catholic male with their take-no-prisoners Generation Z-ness.
Meanwhile, one had already underscored to Mr McL the dangers of Glasgow by showing him mobile phone photos of an Orange March he had recently stumbled across there. And, if pressed, I would have to admit that my principle reason for going to Glasgow tonight is to meet my Aged Parent at the airport in the morning and bring him safely home to Edinburgh, Glasgow’s social problems having worsened in the past few years.
Of course, it is possible (even probable) that Dad could get to Edinburgh unmolested and that I could manage the five minute walk from Glasgow Central Station to the venue (and back) without being murdered. I do not share the deep East Coast mistrust for Glesca; if my own family had it, it was lost between one generation and another. However, I don’t want to worry poor Mr McL, and the whole point of my dance mania is to accompany others who want to dance and, if possible, make their way smooth.
Having spent my day off cleaning our flat, I am now rather too tired to go to a swing-dancing class of strangers, let alone disobey my husband on principle. (The Glasgow friend is otherwise engaged.) Also, having danced so much, I have become much better at taking cues from a Lead–one of the more annoying arguments for Trad Catholic swing-dancing that might be true. When a Lead indicates “This way”, it might be a snap decision saving you from bumping into another couple. When a husband says, “Please don’t go by yourself to a dance class in Weegieland,” he might have a very good reason, even if that is just that he won’t be able to sleep until his wife telephones to say that she survived. For what is a husband, is we examine that individual by the light of Traditional Catholicism, but the ultimate earthly Lead?
But I am also interested that this trifling private matter was brought to the community (by way of our dinner companions) and wonder if it is because on Saturday I made a longish speech over brunch with friends about the public nature of marriage and the role of the community in encouraging couples to stay married and treat each other well. Someone else touched on the role of the community in encouraging couples to marry in the first place, something to which I vociferously agreed.
And of course this all reminds me of “dancing to the same music”–both pointing to marriage and to the village.
That, by the way, is one of my favourite photos of Mr McLean and myself. We were soon to go to a patriotic party, and how chagrined we were to find ourselves in company with people who had contented themselves with Union flag socks.