I remember when Madonna's Blond Ambition tour went live on HBO. I was twelve and I was entranced. I taped it on my VHS recorder and played it over and over again, memorizing the lines, the set, the costumes and the choreography. And then I set out to completely recreate it for my audience of one. I pieced together the costumes from clothes in every member of my family's closet...as closely as I could resemble the originals anyway. I cut holes, sewed stiches. Practiced moves until I twisted ankles. And when I was ready, I played the tape and covered the TV with a blanket. The better to realize my lip-syncing illusion.
I'd always wanted to sing, but even at that early age, I had accepted the fact that I did not have the gift of voice. But I could move. I understood intrinsically the rhythms beneath and between the beats. My mind never had to think about it. I just felt it and went with it. Had I more, ah-hem, ambition, I might have asked my parents for dance lessons. But I copped out, deciding that I was too short to ever make a career out of it.
But then a blessing came. In the South, families of a certain breeding take what is called Cotillion, or more modernly, Social. You find a partner and once a week, attend ballroom dancing and etiquette classes. How to hold your fork, which side to present the lady on, how to properly greet and introduce. My partner was Jean. Along with four other friends we made up a little band of gypsies, feigning propriety for those two hours only to wreak havoc in McDonald's or the Augusta Mall afterwards. But during those two hours, the magic happened. Jean and I got chosen to dance center circle for the Jitterbug, and man was I in top form. I shed my skinsecurities and just went for it. Breathing erratically, sweating nearly unnaturally, and well just generally making a fool of myself. But it was pure and I was happy. For once I was the center of attention and I ate it up.
With this newfound confidence I thought I could take on the world. And so later, at a dance in our school gym, I danced my heart out to the B-52's, "Roam". My real friends surrounded me in delight. But then the others came in. Patrick Parquette took of his baseball hat and made as if to offer it to me for an autograph. Ashley Ingram stood next to me with her pretty auburn curls and copied my moves. But the saddest part was that I didn't even realize they were making fun of me...until the song ended.
Years later in college, I finally regained that confidence. I found a world I fit in. I could dance at gay clubs however I pleased and no one cared. The first time I went to Boneshaker's, I found myself, center-stage, grinding in between a bull-dyke and a black drag queen. It was raw freedom. And I wasn't the only one to notice how happy it made me. It wasn't long before the boys noticed too.
So I took a ballroom performance class a year later. I liked it - once I got it. But I hated following steps. I hated dancing how others told me I had to. Still, I knew that if I stuck to it and learned the skills, I could use them however I wanted. I lived for the weekly dance parties. I even learned to love the rules of the ballroom discipline - and I am not a person that responds well to rules. But I stuck to it, tried out for the Apprentice Group, and got in. I thought, "This could be it! Maybe I will now become a great ballroom dancer!" But I quickly found myself slow to pick up the choreography compared to everyone else. And this was compounded by my constantly having to miss practice for work and school. Eventually I gave in. No. I gave up - and dropped the elective. I was disappointed in myself, but I simply had other responsibilities.
I still think I made the right decision for my life, but I sometimes wonder what it would have been like if I had found a way to make it work. Especially when Dancing with the Stars comes on and it's all I can do not to jump straight into the TV and twinkle my toes right along with Mario, Apollo or Helio.
But then, I suppose things could be worse. I did not return to the hideout of my room and get all Sunset Boulevard. After all, I can single-handedly spark a wedding into life, and when I still grab the eyes of those boys at gay clubs. But poor Ashley Ingram ended up getting pregnant and married our senior year and Patrick Parquette is now an overweight policeman with a dead-end life.
So I took the lesson and simply resolved never to sell myself "short" again. And I hope that when you get the choice to sit out or dance...you dance.
