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Move When the Music Moves You Move When the Music Moves YouI love to dance. Love. It. All through elementary I danced; every year for Carnaval and other events we would learn French Canadian folk dances and square dances (I was in French Immersion). I always enjoyed following the turns and calls and knowing that I was doing the dance right. We always wore blouses and skirts accented with a homemade ceinture flech�. The Ukrainian kids always looked cooler with their fancy Ukrainian costumes and high leaps and kicks. I took ballet when I was little, from ages six through 8. I quit because I didn't like missing Saturday morning cartoons every week. Good reason, eh? I then took a year of jazz-ballet at school, taught by the somewhat fruity father of a kid in my violin class. I discovered that I liked the jazz side better and followed that up with 3 years of jazz. I think I drove my teacher crazy. She always called me by my sister's name and so I resolved to be noticeable. I was a pain in the ass in that class, making the other girls laugh with my "mad scientist" hair and pretending that I had never danced before and stumbling around or dropping my props at unusual moments in rehearsal. I'm actually surprised that the teacher didn't kill me. After elementary, we moved and no more dance lessons for me. Junior High through High School, I spent my time on Musical Theatre and choirs, I was known for my clumsiness and took forever to grow into my new body. The idea that such a comical clutz would dance was laughable. At University I joined Wammick, a student run/student group choir. Slowly I emerged from my shy refuge in books to become friends with people in the choir. We went out most Friday nights to the Power Plant. Inga's Night out had a regular set of well-loved songs that we would happily dance to week after week. All of us would pile onto the dance floor in a seething gyrating mass, pulses throbbing in time with the bass, smiling, turning, touching, moving together: an orgy of closeness. We would drink and talk and dance until closing time, and then all walk home in groups, holding hands for safety, cars honking as they misinterpreted our closeness. One night we went out to swing dance lessons at Juice. One lesson and we were hooked. We started going regularly to the Iron Horse where Kristus' brother Brat taught lessons. Despite lacking a regular dance partner, I knew that I would get to dance at least once that night, as Cute-Naked-Man would make the rounds of the ladies, ensuring sure that none of us were left out. I loved knowing that I was moving in the rhythm of the music and doing the right kind of steps. I loved learning the different sequences and cues. I loved learning and teaching and leading and being led. The instant I hear a bar of swing music my feet are itching to move, to step and rockstep, to turn and spin, to embellish the basic moves and make them look complicated. Heritage Day is my favourite holiday because it means that the Heritage Days Festival is on. I guess it's supposed to represent the integration of many different cultures that form our identity as Canadians. The old "melting pot" thing. It's a sprawling festival through Edmonton's Mayfair Park where many countries have booths with food and traditional costume and items for purchase, and everyone gets to show their pride in their country of origin. You can try the food or watch a performance of traditional dance at many of the booths. I tried watching the dance relating to my own background. Dutch dance is dead boring. Seriously. And if you've ever tried on a pair of wooden shoes you'll understand exactly why Dutch dancing is so bleeding dull: probably to avoid bleeding to death from your feet. Bleh. But then I watched the Irish dances. Wow! This is what I like! Pounding rhythm with and without the music. I'll take Irish Dance or Cape Bretton Step any day! So I did. I found a dance studio that gives adult Irish Dance lessons for beginners. My friend Smacked went with me and I happened to know a few people in the class. I've started my third year now and I love it. Soft shoe is fun; trying to force your feet to move quickly and to kick higher and crossover tighter while trying to look graceful, but hard shoe is really where my heart lies. Getting the rhythms just right so that the whole class thunders in unison and the floorboards quake and the echoes ring off the walls and your heart races as you gasp for breath and just keep dancing until you can't anymore. When I started dating Bear he mentioned that he had always wanted to learn to swing dance but had never had a chance, so for our first date we had fondue and a swing-dancing lesson (I'll tell you about this another time). In the summer of 2002, I happened upon a beginner's Salsa class offered by the University and thought that maybe we would be better suited to dance with both feet on the floor at all times. I carefully planned out my arguments to convince Bear to take the lessons with me. To my shock he immediately agreed, leaving me with my mouth hanging open and my head full of useless arguments. What a surprise, we were actually good at it! Salsa is the sexiest and most sensual of dances. It's impossible to not feel the blood raging through your veins after a song or two moving together, bodies close and hands always in contact, hips swaying, hair flailing. The music is infectious and makes you want to move and dance and touch and kiss and do everything that two bodies can do together. Our particular favourite is when the man hooks both elbows over the woman's arms in quick succession, pulling her close and face-to-face as if for a kiss and she can't break free even if she wanted to. I once told my friend Kristus that she'll never be too old to dance: that when we're 80, she and Cute-Naked-Man will be swing-dancing in my kitchen. I really hope that's the way it goes, with Bear and I Salsa-ing till we drop and my children taking Irish Step lessons and all of my friends being strong enough of body to move when the music moves them. I feel alive! Let's DANCE!
2003-10-08 || 3:42 p.m. |
