Challenge 47: Three Different Forms of Dance

I’m sorry, you want me to follow?

After a night of flailing and thumping, I was looking forward to a more structured form of dance and to my pleasant surprise, I walked into the studio to find that the Tango instructor also taught Swing.

Cristian arranged us into lines behind him as he broke down the simple four-count and while I stumbled at first and struggled to find the “one”, after a few run-throughs, my feet moved in time with his. Then he paired the four-step with a turn and it became grossly apparent that I was not the only rookie in the class. Fantastic! I hate being the worst person in the room. We practiced on our own for a little while and I felt like I was really getting the hang of it…until we had to pair up.

“Ow!” My effeminate Latin partner was glaring at me with an intent to kill.

“Oh, sorry! I didn’t mean to-“

“I know, I know, I’m just not moving fast enough for you.” Actually, you’re just forgetting the steps midway through the set.

“Oh no, it’s not that…it’s just, you’re supposed to step back-“

“No. You’re supposed to step forward when I pull you forward.” Well, yea, but your pull is so weak I can’t tell whether you’re dancing with me or by yourself.

“Right, I know, but you weren’t pulling me forward-“

“I’M supposed to lead.”

“Right. Sorry. Ok, you lead.”

He had a point- I do have trouble following when I know what’s supposed to come next. Actually, that’s not entirely true; if my partner is a strong lead and/or I trust that he knows what he’s doing, I am completely pliable. But when he’s weak or has trouble finding the beat, I can’t help but take over. I’ve heard ballroom dancing is a lot like dating. Hm.

Thankfully, we kept switching partners and there were some guys in the class who were really good, so it started to get fun. But then it came time for the last switch. A 5’3” Greek man wearing very official looking dance shoes walked up to me, did a complete and obvious once-over and rolled his eyes as he offered his hand. Seriously? I reluctantly put my right hand in his and remained mute as the Napoleonic tyrant (who was unfortunately a strong lead and knew way more than I did) insulted my dancing and kept making me stop so he could “test our tension”.

“No. Lean.”

“Like this?”

“No. You need give me something to push against. Lean closer.” But what if I don’t WANT to be closer to you?

“Like this?” I could now inhale the perspiration from his sweaty widow’s peak.

“That’s good.” Good GOD his breath stunk.

Finally, after three turns he decided that we had an acceptable amount of tension and he led me through the basic routine. As much as I hate to admit it, he was a much better dancer than I was and I definitely learned from our time together.

I was a little sad when the Tango dancers started to file in and Cristian let the music fade, because despite the hiccups, sore toes and bruised egos, it had been really fun. I will definitely be back for more.

Unfortunately, my night of Bachata was a different story. This sultry salsa-like dance has two versions- the fast-paced and complicated street style, and the simplified American version. A Time To Dance teaches the American style which consists of four steps you can use to move yourself to the right, left, front, and back. If this is too vanilla, you can jazz it up by stepping your feet in front and back of each other, you can add a kick at the end of each four-count, and you can turn. It sounds pretty simple and it is, if you have a strong lead….but these are hard to find in a beginner class. In most of my pairings I was the only one who knew what was going on, so I’m sure you can guess how my night turned out.

The best partner I had was the female instructor (who was probably the strongest petite 5’2” Italian chick I have ever encountered), and I can only imagine what it’s like for her to dance with a man who is beneath her skill. She probably “directs” with a firm yet subtle hand.

The problem I have with these partner dances is that they depend on the man to initiate everything, which means as a woman, you have to dance to their level. I think that’s bullshit. A man who is a strong lead can always make his partner look good, even if she has no idea what she’s doing. But women? If we have a crappy partner we’re SOL. I had fun this week but I think I need to learn how to relinquish control before going back to partner dancing. So until further notice, I’ll be taking hip-hop.

Challenge 47: Three Different Forms of Dance

Three Different Forms of Dance : Afro Cuban

I used to think I had rhythm, I did. I used to think I was a pretty good dancer who could hold her own in any type of class even if I had never seen the types of movements they were presenting. This disillusion of grandeur came to a crashing halt the night I took an Afro Cuban dance class.

My challenge for the week was to take three classes in different forms of dance than I had ever taken before, and to my benefit, Groupon had a deal with A Time to Dance, a local studio. I decided to take an Afro Cuban class, East Coast Swing, and Bachata (a form of street dance developed in the Dominican Republic).

The concept of “starting slow” or “easing” into something is not one that I’m familiar with, so it’s fitting that I started my dance odyssey with Afro Cuban. I had no idea what I was supposed to wear so I brought workout clothes, a dress, stretchy cords and three different pairs of shoes, and when I asked the woman at the front desk about the appropriate attire, I was told I could wear whatever I was comfortable in and that we would be dancing barefoot.

“So I can I wear these?” I asked while pointing at the stretchy cords I was wearing.

“Not unless those are special workout cords.” I turned to see the very adorable Tango instructor trying not to smile.

“Well, I can move in them.”

“You’re going to sweat in this class. A lot. I would definitely change if I were you.” The corners of his mouth hinted at a swallowed laugh, but since I had never taken the class, I had no idea why. After about five minutes, I understood.

As I listened to the soul of the African music rise and fill the room, and then watched our instructor Wilfredo begin to undulate his body, flail his arms with birdlike grace, and syncopate his feet, I realized why the Tango instructor had suggested I change- this was going to be hard work. I tried to imitate Wilfredo’s balletic movements but there were so many drumbeats, one for each part of the body, that I was immediately lost. I have rhythm when there is a singular or dominant“beat”, but when three or more drums complicate that thumping, you’ve lost me.

In Afro Cuban dance, your arms, core and legs are all on different beats, so it’s like trying to pat your head, rub your belly, and do an Irish jig while telling a joke and crying, all at the same time. Except that instead of patting your head, you’re flapping your arms, there’s definitely more belly thrusting than rubbing, and the feet have habanera flair. There was a lot going on.

This form of dance also requires that you have an incredibly loose body but most of us were so tight, Wilfredo spent half the class making us hop-shuffle from one side of the room to the other while shaking our arms like orangutans.

When he finally got to the steps, I would pick up on the feet, but then he would add the arms and it screw me up. Then I would finally get the arms and he would add a turn, then he would change the arms halfway through, and it got to the point where I was concentrating so hard on the movements that I forgot about the loosening up part. I avoided my image at all costs, but once when my eyes drifted from Wilfredo’s beautifully articulating body, to my own awkward reflection, I realized I looked like I was skenking (that awful dance for people who can’t dance that became popular in the ’90’s). I used to make fun of skenkers (I have no idea if that’s even what they were called), and in one of life’s great ironies, I now looked like one. Either that or I was having a seizure while standing.

I started giggling uncontrollably. I couldn’t help it, I looked ridiculous. And what made it worse was that there were only four of us in the class, so there was nowhere to hide, and the street-facing wall of the studio was all windows. When I left I was surprised there wasn’t a group of teenagers huddled together outside of the window, high as kites, laughing their asses off. If I was 21 again, that is what I would do on a Tuesday night at 8pm.

Despite the awkward undulations, I finally started to get the hang of it and even had a little fun…until a larger, middle-aged, obviously “single and prowling” woman wearing a practically see-through white t-shirt and black bra tried to start a conversation with me. She was sweating through her caked makeup and kept throwing her arms down and exaggerating her hip movements while saying, “Ugh! This is soooooo tough after a 14 hour flight abroad.” It took me a second to realize that she was addressing me and not just throwing out her statement to decorate the musty air.

And then when I did realize she was talking to me, I didn’t quite know how to respond, so I just nodded my head and gave her a half smile and turned my head to focus on Wilfredo. She tried the same thing a few more times thinking that maybe I hadn’t heard her, and each time I gave her the same head nod, same straight-line smile, same unfocused eyes. She may have thought I was a little slow. Apparently she’s been going to the class for six months, “Don’t worry honey, in 100 more classes, you’ll look like me!” God, I hope not.

My favorite thing about Afro Cuban is that you get to dance it barefoot. And my second favorite thing is that it’s kind of giant hodgepodge of latin dances, mixed with an African rhythm and movements that are more carefree than any other type of dance I’ve experienced. I don’t know if I’ll take another class soon as my Groupon only covers six classes, two will be used by my challenge this week and I’d really like to use the remaining four for hip hop classes, but maybe I’ll drop in again. It was fun, and I could see it being REALLY fun if you knew what you were doing.