I imagined my first night of salsa to be in a dark, crowded dance room; young hot bodies guiding one another to sensual music with bright lights swirling overhead. I expected to be surprisingly good for my first time, wooing men with my charms and wit, never mind the fact that it was my first time…no one would really notice, and in the end they would find it both charming and exciting that I was willing to try something so sensual and sultry, just for the heck of it.
My evening salsa dancing was nothing like that.
The night took place in a small dance room with light wood floors and dark tan silk drapes that hid the coatroom. It was brightly lit with florescent lights and while the mood was extremely welcoming and warm, I began to see the night was not going to be anything like I had expected.
For an hour we were instructed by a very small Philippine woman who wore a short, uncomfortably tight black dress with stiletto heels. She and her son guided us through a few basic moves before the social started.
Jennine did not warn me that salsa was going to be so humbling. I envisioned passionate moves and sensual rhythm. Instead I stood small and skinny among older gentlemen who were even more uncoordinated than me, but because they were leading me, made me feel awkward and clumsy. And shitty.
Salsa dancing wasn’t supposed to make me feel shitty.
When practice was over and the social started, the lights were slightly dimmed, and in the far corner a miniature party light shined bright colored orbs in a 5 foot radius, shining on nothing more than itself and the feet of a man who decided he was going to sit the rest of the night out, embarrassed about his inability to spin a girl or walk to a simple eight count. I was sympathetic on so many levels. I too decided that my atrocious dancing skills needed to be shelved.
Embarrassed I hid in the refreshment room, meticulously eating a small mandarin with my head down, avoiding eye contact. Salsa dancing was supposed to make me feel sexy and empowered. Instead I felt small and clumsy. Old men avoided dancing with me after a while. I apologized for missteps, my head constantly down looking at feet. "Look up and smile" they would say, but in reality I wanted to cower and cry. I just wanted to be left alone...or surrounded by young forgiving men who would hold me tight and move me meticulously and yet smoothly and effortlessly around the floor, their hips guiding mine through the air; the music moving my hips with its magical beat. Instead I felt heavy, clumsy, un-rhythmic and awkward.
After finishing my orange, I snuck to the coatroom to write my thoughts. I thought my sexuality, young spirit and tight pants would be enough to make me a good dancer. But no. That is not the case. I grew up in a Hispanic family...these moves should be inborn...but they aren't. So instead I hid out, letting the music pulse inside me as I dodged potential partners.
No one told me it was going to be like this. That I was going to suck. Ok, so maybe I'm not that bad, but really, I believed deep down I had the rhythm to move mountains, to rock worlds and to take down giants. Apparently I don't. So I stand and pick at my nails and tell suitors I am resting my feet when in reality I am resting my bruised ego. I came here to be set free, instead I feel trapped and pushed and pulled and I can feel their frustrations, even if they are laughing with me as I awkwardly and humbly struggle to find their rhythm.
Alone I am pulsing with passion and rhythm, wishing there was another me here to dance with because that me would be understanding, coaxing, smoldering and would know how to move me. Instead I dodge old men who smell like my grandfather’s medicine cabinet and continually look for excuses of why I don’t want to subject anyone to my pathetic and awkward movements. I wish I were in a dark room full of 80s music. I see now why no one goes with Jennine salsa dancing. "Its like this for everyone" she told me as I coward in the coatroom, sweat dripping off her brow as she reached into her cubby for water. I wasn't mad, I was disappointed...in myself. I wanted everyone to be drunk so that I could dance to the music alone, content in my own rhythm. I hate sharing myself with others for fear of rejection. I am content with me, and the last thing I want is someone I don't know who smells like cheap cologne looking at me as if I am a lower life form for not being able to follow their clumsy lead.
As the night progressed, a smooth dancing Asian man with light denim jeans, tight around his bulging athletic thighs, coaxed me into dancing as Jennine pushed me towards him saying into my ear, "He's a great lead, trust me" and so I went.
He led me, told me what I was doing wrong "stand up straight, don't duck" and he pushed and pulled me delicately and I felt light on my feet for the first time all night. His breath was bad, but I ignored it in hopes of feeling the rhythm of the night. And I did. If even for a small moment, I felt the rhythm, his guiding hands, and the magic of what salsa had to offer: subtle sensuality, light and classy, an ability to be guided across the floor and spun with ease and grace. And for one song I grasped the night and let it spin me and move me.
Later he danced with a girl whose rhythm and grace far surpassed mine, shaking my already delicate confidence. The Asian man came to me later and asked me to dance again. This time around I fumbled and lost the rhythm and began to feel self conscious over the fact that my moves and knowledge of this magnificent dance paled in comparison, and I got in my own way.
This second time dancing together was not as graceful or full of as much ease, but I was ok with it. I wasn't in the coatroom, avoiding offers to dance or in the corner meticulously peeling mandarins (which left a lingering smell as later I was asked if I had been eating mandarins from a fellow who danced the basic step the entire time the song played). Dancing so close to others is frightening, mostly because you think they can smell not only the mandarin, but also your fear and insecurities.
After the old white men left and I began to enjoy the night, the bongos and drums and maracas came out. I began to feel at home. Had there been an accordion at any point in the night I would have thought I was in the backyard of my grandparents house at one of our usual family get-togethers.
And then the young people showed up.
There is something to be said about being youthful. There is a spirit and a drive and an understanding that is refreshing and desirable. I am not sure at what point someone becomes old, but I never want to be there...not if it makes you clumsy and awkward and makes little girls feel bad about themselves.
So the young ones came and we danced. Kevin, a cute, short, sweet little Hispanic guy with moves and swagger and an ability to play the bongo that will make your thighs tingle, finally asked me to dance. I wanted to dance with him, not because he was cute, but because he was having fun...and I wanted to too.
I stepped on his feet and it took me a second to find out where he was leading me but in the end he said, “It doesn’t matter what we do, as long as we just go with it and have fun”. And I smiled and let go. Our dance was not as smooth as it was with me and the Asian man, but it was more fun, wild and free. I would have killed to have him lead me in Bachata...just to see what it would be like. But we never got the chance.
As the ballroom filled with the sounds of bongos, and maracas and laughter, I found myself lost in the night and enjoying more than just the music, but the culture, the love, the freedom and the comfort that the night brought. It was hard to leave, even though my feet ached and I was exhausted, but in a good way. As Jennine and I began to walk away, they began to play zumba music and before we knew it we were both joining in on the ballroom floor with the men and women, dancing to the beat, our thighs burning, our hearts racing, and both of us laughing, ending the night on something beautiful.
As Jennine and I walked to the car, we were buzzing with an electric energy, both of us grinning from ear to ear. We laughed the whole drive home and reflected on the night. When we got home and were changing in the bedroom I thanked her and apologized for letting my ego get in the way of the night. She laughed it off and knew exactly how I felt.
“Salsa isn’t easy”, she said, sitting at the edge of the bed, untying her ballroom shoes, and rubbing her bare feet before she placed them back on the floor. “You actually have to take classes to really be good at it,” she said, standing and walking out of the room in her bare feet.
I just laughed and shook my head. I guess maybe I wasn’t so bad at salsa after all...
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