Learning To Soar (Part I)

Back in 2001 I met a fellow at one of my various places of employment named Jeffrey. Everyone talked about what a great dancer Jeffrey was, and Jeffrey is a fabulous dancer. Apparently somewhere around the age of 40 Jeffrey decided to take dance lessons, and a star was born. At the time I met him, he was dancing, on average, 5 to 6 nights a week.

Despite my extreme lack of athletic ability, I was interested in learning how to dance myself. On Jeffrey’s recommendation I started taking salsa lessons at L.A. Dance Experience in Westwood. I enjoyed it, but after a few months I was very eager to try out swing dancing. Although he had never been himself, Jeffrey said the Pasadena Ballroom Dance Association had good word-of-mouth. So I packed up my dance shoes and trekked out there.

Did you know that there is a higher plane of existence right here on this earth? Did you know that there’s a gymnasium in Southern California where no one is judged on looks or weight or fashion sense or social standing or net income? Did you know that there’s a direct connection between your feet, your heart, and your smile?

Friends, let me be the first to testify that dancing is one of the greatest joys of life. The adrenaline rush you get from dancing is so pure and exhilarating that it can just rocket your soul right into space, do a couple of orbits around the solar system, and still leave you with enough energy to do The Shim-Sham at the end of a fifteen-hour day. Simply put, thanks to Jeffrey I stumbled across something that makes me extremely happy.

PBDA was founded in 1983 by sisters Erin and Tami Stevens, and currently they teach classes in various dance six days a week, have a ballroom dance once a month, and swing dances with live bands every Saturday night. I have never met two people who look happier in their employment than Erin and Tami. I have never seen them without smiles on their faces. I have never heard them raise their voice or disparage anyone, and their warm attitudes are an inspiration at the end of every long sixty-hour work week.

The dancers at PBDA are also quite remarkable. What I particularly like is that no one is there to become a competitive dancer. They’re just there to learn how to dance and to enjoy it, free of pressure or bias. I have met so many great people at PBDA, of every background and ability, and they are the ones who keep me coming back week after week. I love when I walk into a dance and see everybody there. They’re dancing and laughing and I barely get a chance to sit down all night and it’s the most amazing thing in the world. (God, why couldn’t high school dances have been like that?!?) I love when they compliment my dancing, even when I step on their toes. I love watching Tami dance with her husband Scott. I love that no matter how rotten a day I’ve had, no matter how tired or down I am, dancing makes all that disappear in a split second. It’s the most unadulterated, undemanding, unrivaled joy I’ve ever known.

I met my friend Jenny at PBDA, and I swear she must be my lucky star. She’s one of the most generous people I’ve ever met. Last year she, our friend Mariah, and I went on a swing dancing cruise to the Caribbean, and she was a large part of making that happen. It was a fantastic trip—we met dancers from all over the world and celebrated the 90th(!) birthday of Frankie Manning, one of the pioneers of the lindyhop. (You can see some pictures of the cruise at flickr.com or through Jenny’s site.)

I especially admire the men in my classes. Every girl on this planet knows what it’s like to try and get a guy to dance. The begging and cajoling and the fake tears, only to find yourself dancing with your girlfriends to “I Will Survive” at every wedding (because they couldn’t get their boyfriends to dance, either). Yet here are these fellows, every week, who have overcome every male hang-up about dancing and are having a great time. One of my favorite dance partners swears that he used to be so clutzy that he once got kicked out of a step-aerobics class for being a hazard to others. But thanks to dance lessons, he’s now able to cut a mighty fine rug.

The “lead” is not an easy job. First the male must overcome his paralyzing fear of looking foolish just to join the class. Then not only must he learn the steps, but he must also learn how to communicate the moves to his partner, assess her abilities, and formulate a dance pattern—all in a matter of seconds. I can talk on the phone, check email, do laundry, and cook dinner at the same time, but I couldn’t lead a dance to save my life. But here’s the really astounding thing: even when I can’t contain my clumsiness any longer, when I’m all twisted legs and flying elbows and dead weight, they still ask me to dance again. That’s a real man for you.

“Thank the stars there’s a day
each week to tuck in

the grief, lift your pearls, and
stride brush stride

quick-quick with a
heel-ball-toe. Smooth

as Nat King Cole’s
slow satin smile,

easy as taking
one day at a time:

one man and
one woman,

rib to rib,
with no heartbreak in sight—

just the sweep of Paradise
and the space of a song

to count all the wonders in it.”

--Rita Dove, “Fox Trot Fridays” from American Smooth