Last summer at the University Street Fair, there was a live big band playing and I watched two kids emerge from the audience and start dancing like their feet were on fire. They were having an absolute blast. I watched them for three full songs, until the boy picked up his saxophone case, the girl tossed her backpack over one shoulder and they dissolved into the crowd of people drifting down The Ave. I wanted to go with them, wherever they were headed, to keep that joy alive. Their faces were flushed as they laughed and talked excitedly about the band. As they disappeared around the corner, I knew I wanted what they had. I must learn to dance.
Now swing dancing, particularly Intro to swing dancing, is an efficient gathering of all my known Issues in one place. Let's see, getting up in front of 25 people I don't know and looking like a fool. Being touched -- intimately -- by strangers (!!!!). Generalized social anxiety. And arriving at a venue to which I've never been, to do something I have no knowledge of, without someone else to guide me. Screw therapy -- this is baptism by fire. Sign me up.
I can blame 90% of these issues on genetics and social conditioning. You may remember 8th grade. (Try as I might, I shall never forget it.) It's widely known that girls mature earlier than boys by a year or two. So imagine my delight when I started school that year, thirteen years old -- and six feet tall. Being six feet tall as an adult is challenging enough. But with all the boys still a scrappy five feet, my height was downright freakish. And one of the first things we did in Phys Ed that year was ballroom dancing.
I don't know why they wanted to torture us. In retrospect, it falls under cruel and unusual punishment, for everyone involved. While I was picked first for every basketball team, a desired dancing partner I was not. So as much as I loved to dance, and as urgently as I wanted to, dancing became a source of heart-crushing anxiety. Whichever small-fry was forced to be my partner made sure I knew just how unhappy he was, and just how abnormal I was.
It doesn't help that in our culture, women are required to be smaller than men. Even our signage on roads (school crossing, for example) and bathroom doors tells us daily what size we are supposed to be. We should be slight, and feminine -- and feminine means small, preferably weak. There hasn't been a time in my life when I could have been accused of being slight, small or weak. I am long-limbed, athletic, and strong. I take up space. Lots of it. Were I living in the country of my heritage, I'd be hauling aspen trunks through the snow with my bare hands. With a grunt, my Nordic suitors would grab me enthusiastically by the waist: "Guh! Big. Strong. Woman!"
But alas, I was reared in the coastal Northeast, surrounded by a throng of Long Island Jews and their diminutive offspring.
I've learned to smile when someone says, "Gosh -- I wish I were as tall as you." I no longer bark, "You should try shopping with me sometime, bitch!" And I good-naturedly tolerate each person who says something brilliant and original, like, "How's the weather up there?" as though it's the first time I've heard it. I don't mind being tall anymore, and I'm no longer bitter. So in response to, "What are you up to?" I often say, "Oh, about six one." That's something my mom used to say, and I loved her breezy way of dismissing her hulking German stature. But it's a lot of pressure to be the first person everyone sees when they enter a room.
When my old roommate Peter threw a party and invited his slew of Danish friends, I realized I needed to relocate. The great Danes were all enormous -- "strapping" comes to mind -- seven feet tall, sturdy, broad-shouldered, blond. When they saw me, they swooped in on the dance floor, eager to spin around a girl who wouldn't put a crick in their necks. I loved them. All of them. Intensely.
Back on the Swing circuit this winter, my anxiety began to mount when I imagined a descent back into eighth grade. As adults, the commentary on my altitude would be more cordial, borne from a perceived need to break the ice by addressing the obvious. I don't recall any hurtful dialog in the past decade. But it's tiresome to repeatedly entertain silly observations, and I already endure at least one daily. I knew in the Swing class that we'd rotate through partners, so as not to "develop any bad habits," as it says on the web site. I wouldn't have to submit to a line-up, and everyone would be forced to dance with me whether they wanted to or not, which I found oddly comforting. Still, I wished I could just avoid the issue altogether.
Then I saw the most brilliant offering ever: Queer Swing. Being a Capitol Hill establishment, Century Ballroom offers an array of classes for "our gay and lesbian friends, and their friends." What better environment in which to be unconventional -- in appearance or otherwise? People well-versed in shaking up gender roles! Gay boys unfazed that I tower over them! No pressure to be cute and a stunning dancer. Nobody there would be looking at me, that's for sure. I imagined a roomful of gay men preening themselves and staring at one another's butts, like they do while cruising Broadway. I feel invisible on Capitol Hill, where everyday is Pride Day. What better way to learn to dance than to be invisible on the dance floor?
I was energized and inspired by my new discovery. It was the best plan I'd ever had, I was sure. I called JJ to tell her all about Swing classes. JJ was so excited about the dance class that she wanted in on it, too. She's a lesbian, but she said she didn't care whether or not we took the queer class. She thought I was suggesting it for her benefit. But this was all about me and my childhood scars. I signed us up -- JJ as a "Lead" and me as a "Follow."
Visions of gregarious, flamboyant queers in dance shoes filled my head as we made our way to the Century Ballroom. This was going to be the most fun I'd had in a long time. When we arrived at the ballroom, I was floored by the beauty of the space. It was absolutely decadent. The 20's were perfectly preserved in burnished wood floors, red velvet curtains, the ornate mezzanine decorated with tiny lights. Breathtakingly beautiful. I wanted to dance, ASAP.
We were the last ones to arrive and when the instructor called us out onto the dance floor, my heart sank. I shook my head as though to clear my vision; I couldn't believe what I saw before me. The dancers filed out onto the floor and lined up. I stared, mouth agape. There I stood in my perfectly orchestrated plan, immersed in a sea of twenty miniature dykes.
It wasn't just all women. These were all little women. I have never seen such a strange convergence of short people in my life. The lesbians pooled around my waist and I walked through the crowd like an Amazon queen in a field of pygmies.
There was one man in attendance, and he stood on the edge of the dance floor, nervously wringing his hands. I felt a sudden kinship with him.
I didn't have time to dwell on this state of affairs. The class began immediately, and moved fast. I had to concentrate or miss the steps. After five minutes of instruction, they threw on the music and sent us dancing -- with partners.
When it came time to do turns, I knew I was doomed. Each woman tried desperately to allot me enough clearance so I could spin beneath her hand, but her arms were never long enough, and we entangled in an awkward limbo. I wanted to cry.
Some of the moves were simply impossible to do. I was supposed to keep my hand on their shoulder, elbow down, but my lanky arms were too long to hold that posture on a partner 5'2" in cowboy boots. The butch Leads took my size as a threat to their image and let me know it. When I got to the one guy, my skyscraper beacon of hope, I skipped a couple rotations and kept him as my partner, giving my back a chance to stretch out.
I focused on the steps, on learning the steps, on doing the steps. That's why I was there, I reasoned, to learn to dance. The partners were irrelevant. But with their forced witticisms, they were hard to ignore.
At the second class a week later, we were missing a few Leads, so the two instructors rotated through the Follows. I got to dance with the bite-sized, adorable instructor Ricki in pink Converse sneakers. After a minute, she said, "I know you're trying to make it easier for me to turn you, but don't compensate for your partner's lack of height." I loved the way she put that. Their lack of height. Not my excess. "What should I do, though? When I'm dancing with someone like you who's a foot shorter?" She just smiled and said, "Let them worry about it. It's not your problem. Own your height. Own it," she said emphatically. I loved her. Intensely.
I got through the second class unscathed and managed to at least appear to be enjoying myself. I was relieved when it was over. It had been a successful class; I showed up, I learned stuff, I danced. That was the main point. I told JJ how badly my plan had failed and I laughed until tears came out of my eyes and I couldn't breathe. Meanwhile, JJ had her own tales of woe. As a femme Lead, she got more flack than I did. The whole thing was hysterically, undeniably ironic.
The two of us headed home, a ridiculous pair -- the six foot tall Follow and the lipstick lesbian Lead, denouncing the foolish gender boxes people try to squish us into.
And of course we're going back tonight for round three. Who could resist?
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