shall we dance

This past Friday I sat in an Elks Lodge wondering if I would be out of there before the snowstorm of the year started. Though I did not receive the memo, I was wearing a black outfit, red shoes and silver jewelry which as I looked around the hall seemed to be the colors of the evening. Before you ask why I was there, actually there was no place I would rather have been. My best friend was graduating from her hand dance class; I was a proud supporter. As we waited for the Class of 21 from One Step at a Tyme to make their debut, I enviously gazed with admiration at couples moving smoothly around the floor, men leading the way. With just a tap or gaze they told women exactly what they were to do, she skillfully followed. Each person had their own signature moves that when paired with those of their partner of choice told one dance story. When couples switched, a new story unfolded. I was mesmerized, fascinated and giddy.

I have always admired partner dancing. Long before Dancing with the Stars, which I do not like due to the celebrity involvement, the public access channel was broadcasting and continues to air ballroom competitions. As the dancers execute their routines, my body tenses and relaxes…it seems to be trying to configure the steps. I salivate over the samba, cheer for the cha cha and the tango, simply titillating. When I was a teen, I met a family who had moved to Jersey from Chicago, they did something called the bop. I was a flop. When the hustle was all the fuss, I picked up just enough to fake some finesse. Though I have never been good at these dances, I have never fallen out of love with viewing those who have mastered them. A skilled pair leaving it on the floor is something to behold. I seriously get my happy on watching.

Somewhere in my historical brain, I thought I remembered that hand dancing originated in my birthplace, so I Googled it and here’s what Wikipedia reports, “Hand dancing, also known as D.C. hand dancing or D.C. swing, is a form of swing dance that can be traced as far back as the 1920s, from Lindy Hop, to Jitterbug and to the 50's when Washington, D.C. developed its own version and named it Hand Dance. It is characterized by gliding footwork and continuous hand connection/communication between the partners hence its name...In 1993, the Smithsonian Institution recognized Hand Dance as an American Art Form.” And art it is!

I love to dance, have always been able to hold my own on any dance floor. My preference is to move freely as the music moves me. However, the only acceptable form of dance for my evening at the Elks was either hand or line and there were at least four line dances each with some twist that I could not wrap my brain around. I was intimidated knowing that my previous experiences with hand dancing by any name had turned me into a willing wallflower but nothing could keep the music from coursing through my body, veins filling with the groove of each song perfectly selected for this kind of movement. A man who knows how to dance exudes a confidence that is irresistible and there before me was a whole lot of sexy irresistibility! Maybe in the right hands I would know just what to do so as a gentleman stepped to me and took my hand I wanted to succumb to him, allow him to glide me around the floor. Sad to say, my body awkwardly followed, my brain disconnected; the steps did come as naturally as I expected. D.C. hand dancing truly is an art form that takes time to learn one step at a time over a period of time. I thank my partner who was patient, kind and had moves that were oh so debonair for being gracious enough to take an amateur to the floor so she could get a taste of what the evening was all about.

As we applauded the graduates, someone returned to the table to breathlessly say that the snow had arrived. Folks began to politely scurry. When the doors opened, it was scintillating! Fluffy flakes were falling furiously against the dark sky but all I saw was a magical stage that reminded me of the setting for a ballet. The snowflakes danced over my face, I waltzed across the wet white carpet in my red suede shoes. Perhaps they would lead me back to the Elks one day but in the meantime…

keep your peepers open! ®