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Along Life’s Way
Dancing to a
Different Tune
By Lois E. Wilson
The Victorian facade of the dancing school bespoke a faded era.
Nevertheless well-meaning parents, perhaps seeking a higher rung on the
social ladder, prodded their prepubescent offspring up its limestone
path. The ornate oak door hid from view yet promised those on the
threshold a glimpse of gentility.
Ribbon-haired girls curtsied; stiff-shirted boys bowed to the
matron-hostess in blue-gray crepe. Around her neck were draped multiple
strands of iridescent pearls; her right hand gripped tightly the
dragon-head handle of an oriental walking stick. We obediently followed
her to the ballroom.
She lined us up, girls on one side, boys on the other, and then
demonstrated the dance's repeat pattern. Tentatively, we traced her
diagram, plodded out: step-step-close, step-step-close. We kept our
eyes diverted lest they catch sight of someone across the floor looking
back.
The second lesson her husband played waltz music on a wobbly baby
grand. She accented his slow, exaggerated style with strikes against
the floor from her walking stick—a challenge to us to capture the
cadence. But our rhythmless feet found their own beat.
At subsequent sessions, we labored over the fox-trot and two-step. Boys
learned how to ask girls (properly, of course) for a dance. And girls
were shown how to keep their dance cards.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but the weekly abashment I felt in
that ballroom was a lesson on sexual inequality: boys possess the
power; girls pray to be chosen. My dance card often lacked names.
Embarrassed, I’d be forced to dance with another slighted girl—or
worse, the teacher.
The second term the woman and her husband taught the Latin-American
dances. My subconscious, survival instincts signaled me that this
“flower” would only flourish away from the wall. After the first ten
lessons, I forsook the tango, rumba, and samba to find my place in the
sun.
I didn’t shun dancing altogether, but I danced on my own terms. I chose
situations carefully. A few years later, my friends and I went to a
square dance at the YMCA in Dayton, Ohio.
Square dancers are down-to-earth. They enjoy the music, the movement,
and interaction with other couples while dancing. They enjoy it all for
itself—not as a means to enhance their social status.
At the “Y” I met my future husband. This tall, blond, blue-eyed younger
version of Van Johnson came over and asked me to dance. Saying “yes”
was the best decision of my life. That August night, I found my place
in the sun. It proved to me that at life’s square dance, God is the
caller.
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