Tango Time

I've become a fan of tango. I enjoy dancing in general, but I particularly like couples dances such as swing or more formal ballroom dances. I have often felt that a serious problem with our culture has stemmed from the diffuculty we have in exemplifying gender roles for our youth. One way this can be helped is by certain types of dance. The recent resurgence of swing in the USA has done a lot to illustrate my point. My views on all this stem in no small part from the the frustration I had growing up when all dancing with members of the opposite sex consisted of bobbing up and down in a semi-rhythmic manner within a few feet of your partner. Which, of course, is nothing like actually dancing together. In a moment's notice, your partner Mary, in her little bows and whatnot, could capriciously turn away and face a friend or another boy, and suddenly you'd find yourself just bobbing in the middle of the floor like a fool, all by yourself.

Once I learned swing I saw the beauty of being able to share something as a couple, to demonstrate two halves of the same coin, and how they can be different, yet equally important and beautiful. In a sense it's one of the few times in our confusing modern culture where the sexes can be comfortable in their roles and not feel the need to compete with each other. By mutual consent we split the work between us, and make something that is somehow greater than the sum of its parts. Perhaps in that way it's not unlike how a couple can work together to create a child. Those moments are too far and few, in my humble opinion.

So, I like tango. And even more importantly, tomorrow I buy tango shoes!

"That's freaking awesome dude!" (I inserted that line for those, that, like the swine they are, will have no idea what a majestic pearl I just bounced off their foreheads).

One who understands tango will understand that for me, tomorrow is the true gentleman's equivalent of a Jedi building his first light saber. It's the Queen touching a blade to my shoulders. It's my dad handing me the keys the first time I am to pick up my date alone. My tango shoes baby! (Shoes are key because a lot of the passes and turns and such require a special non-stick surface to perform. Modern rubber souls are the bane of Tangeros.) I can't wait to see what I get.

And I'll tell you something else. Tango is the bomb. Any couple could do themselves a world of good making time for a class twice a week. Crazy awesome sex is bound to ensue. It's great to have a dance that so clearly defines roles, yet permits each half of the pair to revel in their particular part and have equal merit. In this age of sexism, gender ambiguity, and x versus y battles, a man is suddenly and gratefully commended for being a MAN, and a woman is shamelessly elevated to the highest pedestals of femininity and raw seductive power, and for which, because of that brief instance, she is forever after remembered in that realm by those who witnessed her.

In tango, as in most couple's dancing, the woman is the flower. But in tango it's done in such an intricate and profound way that the woman is displayed with utter delicacy, grace, and elegance. She is not simply "led," she also has the option to insert a lot of flair into her movements, thus adding her personal mark, which many dances do not so readily permit. The man is the lead, and as such is the pinnacle of strength, dominance, and support to display the woman. But because there are so many subtle variations in the dance, the man has options in his lead, thus individualizing himself by individualizing the pair. Kind of like a great conductor makes great musicians sound even better. A great tango pair improvising in the moment is indescribable in the beauty it creates. It's what jazz is in a couple. It's seduction on another level. There's a line by the Counting Crows that talks about a girl doing flamenco:

She dances while her father plays the guitar,
she's suddenly beautiful.
And we all want something beautiful,
man, I wish I was beautiful.

That's how it is with tango. (And I apologize for quoting you the Counting Crows, but it fits.) You may see two of the fugliest people step up to the pista and be cringing at the train wreck you are certain must follow, but imagine your surprise when, of a sudden they are moving together, as if their plain bodies had been swapped by aliens, leaving a dashing man and beguiling woman in their place, and they are dancing well and owning the space around them with the wondrous design they create together. Immediately the grace and inescapable beauty available to the least of us becomes evident and undeniable.

And just as abruptly, you may be struck with a pang of jealousy, for that formerly unfair maiden has a most charming skill that you lack, and God help you, she IS suddenly beautiful. That homely man can do something that makes women pause to admire him, women that would otherwise not throw him a piece of trash with the time written on it. And you will know and envy their skill, and maybe, just maybe, you might be less likely to judge the next book you see by the fugly cover.

That is the power of art made manifest in movement. And its power may force you to reconsider many things. Real art changes lives. Particularly when it's so accessible. And with that realization you may very quickly head to the next tango class you can find. I highly recommend you do. Because if you can learn the tango, you will never again have to wish to be beautiful.

posted by goat hill dreamer @ 10:34 PM