Lengthening my stride

January 22, 2010 at 6:00 am (Dance Lessons)
Tags: cross-training, dance lesson, dancing, martial arts, Tango

I do not know how to tango.  

I am, of course, a little nervous as I walk into Lauren Coleman’s dance studio.  Tonight is worse than last week.  

Last week I knew absolutely nothing about the tango apart from snippets I’d seen in movies.  It looked tricky, elegant, and a whole lot of fun.  Of course it looked fun, I’d never tried it.  After my first lesson, I knew enough about the Argentine Tango to be humbly terrified.

I am actually a martial artist.  Recovering from a car accident that occurred last August, I was finally approved by my physician to begin “low impact activities” in late October.  Taekwondo is not such an activity.  Ballroom dance, on the other hand, certainly qualifies.  And dance was on my list of ‘Things I’d Love to Try Someday’.  Back when I was teaching or training in Taekwondo 3-4 nights a week and cross-training in Aikido, there was NEVER time for something so frivolous as dance.  Ha.  

Suddenly, with my martial arts life at a standstill, I  had plenty of time.

So, I signed up for Lauren’s Basic Ballroom class and began 6 weeks of the Foxtrot and Swing.  Several years ago, a guy friend tried to teach me to swing, and I remembered his exasperated comment, “Quit trying to lead!  God, you’ll never learn to dance.”  Um.. I’m not very good friends with him anymore.  But, the comment was somewhat warranted.  It’s had its variants in my martial arts career too.  I am, occasionally, formidable in the sparring ring.  But my wins are erratic.  Sometimes I’m in touch with my opponent, and sometimes it seems I completely lose my ability to perceive the Other.  I am, in short, a very poor listener.  I signed up for dance classes, with an oblique hope that it would help with my sparring once I got back to my real freetime activity of choice.

By the third Foxtrot lesson, I remember saying to one of my dance partners, “Wow, we’re dancing!  We’ve really got it!”  Slow, slow, quick-quick, slow, slow… Far from the physically static posture of the writing life, I spent two evenings a week letting Steven or Matt or Cody or Doug lead me around the dance floor.  I found myself intoxicated by the big band music and the steady click of our shoes on the wood floor.  I discovered I really liked dancing… perhaps as much as martial arts.  No longer going to the lessons as a “substitute activity” on my road to recovery, I was looking forward to dancing in and of itself.

After the Basic Ballroom course finished, after the holiday parties where I tried out my new steps and even learned a little bit of the waltz, I found myself looking at the dance class brochure for the winter session.  The Argentine Tango stood out.  ”Now that would be something completely different,” I thought.  ”Why not?”

Hmm.  Tonight, as class begins, I can think of several reasons.  I think of how at the first lesson, every fellow I danced with stepped on my feet and bumped into my knees.  It had been a far cry from the elegant mystique shimmering in my mind’s eye.  

Now, watching Lauren demonstrate our next drill, I see the reason for last week’s snafoos.  This is a very good dance for women who have long graceful legs and expressive hips.  Lauren insists anyone can do it though; there are ways to lengthen your stride so a tall man doesn’t bash into your knees when you’re dancing in that close tango embrace.

“Women, remember to point your toe as you step backward; that will lengthen your step. So will bending the front knee,”  Lauren shows us how to do this as she dances with one of the students.  ”You should lean forward, toward the man too.  Though, keep your back straight; don’t arch it.  That looks silly.”

She makes it look so easy.  There’s one more note for the women.

“As you step back with your right leg, it should brush against your left knee.  If you don’t naturally walk like this, find a way to do so.  Let your ankles kiss each other.”   The tango comes from your hips.

Shoot.  I don’t have any.  That’s why I’m the tough girl who got into breaking boards.  I never learned to walk in heels for the same reason.  But I do own a couple dresses now, and one of them would be perfect for this dance.  I so want to learn.

I jump in.  I dance with more than a dozen partners as Lauren calls us to rotate rather often.  ”It’s good for you; you’ll learn faster and you’ll know how to dance with a variety of people.  What if you go to a wedding?  There will be relatives and friends who want to dance with you.”

All of my partners step on my feet.  All but one.  It’s five minutes till the end of class when I begin to dance with a young man named John.  There is no notable chemistry between us.  (There hasn’t been, actually, with anyone I’ve danced with in these classes.  I’m not there looking for it for one thing, and I’m way too nervy the whole time to think of it!)  No sudden connection.  There is simply this:  from the first step we take, we are dancing the tango.  No over-thinking, no stepping on toes.  Any time he rock-steps or turns or initiates the cross, I have it.  I’m following his lead seamlessly.  

“Wow you’re smooth,” he says.  

“Me?  I–thanks,” I stammer.

“Send your partner!” Lauren calls.  Off John goes.

And my last three partners step on the toes of my too-long feet at the end of my too-short legs.  And “the cross”?  That snappy criss-cross move that the woman uses to respond when the man steps twice just to the right of her line of dance– 

“If he takes one step to your right and then steps back in, you don’t cross.  It’s like he’s saying ‘Well (beat 1) … No (beat 2).’  But if he steps twice to the right of your line.  He’s saying ‘Well (beat 1)… Yes (beat 2).’  You cross then in response.  It is an exchange, a little game,” Lauren explains.  ”This is the conversation of the Tango.”  

We do drills alone.  I get it in the drills.  But, ultimately, I do not complete this move with anyone other than John, not without tripping myself anyway.  

My friend Kelly and I sit next to each other changing into our street shoes after class.  We dally, hanging out in the glow of the stained-glass lights in the entry.  I tell her about John.  

“That happened to me a few years ago,” she says.  ”Wild Joe’s used to have dance nights.  I would go there, and there was this young man who must have been half my age; he and I were able to tango and make each other look good.  Both beginners, but we just had it.  Incredible.  That was the only connection I had with him too; didn’t know him from from anywhere else, and I’ve never seen him since.”

I sit at home now wondering about this very difficult dance.  I think about sparring.  I think about the paradox of how I listen so closely to the authors I ghostwrite for, but I listen so poorly to dance partners.  
I think about my writing voice, which I hope to rediscover.  

I realize that I am, even now, writing in “generic magazine voice” at the moment.  No astounding prose about the mountains where I live or stream of consciousness musings about spirituality.  This first blog entry, I over-write in a familiar ad-copy style.  

But, I’m showing up.  Listening the best I can.  And hoping for that one little success that woos me to show up tomorrow, and next week, and many days after that.