In previous posts, I've admitted feeling lost at times and pondering my purpose for writing here. Recently it occurred to me that my focus is writing about what it’s
like to fumble around in another culture. All the wonderments and charm, sure, but also the frustrations
and disappointments. They are most easily shared in the guise of humor once I've gotten past the initial embarrassment or dismay. I struggle
with putting it all out there- or deciding how much to put out there- but
expressing vulnerability is part of exploring new experiences. It’s ok to cry-
and to talk about it. I’m still finding my comfort zone there, mostly being a
cry in the dark kind of person (unless I happen to be walking down the street
on my way home, in which case I become a cry behind my sunglasses kind of
person.)
I think
it’s no coincidence that my first tear free weeks in Abidjan (yes, it's taken a whopping 9 months to arrive at my first tear free weeks) coincided with my first weeks
attending dance class. Which is why I am
so disappointed that my initial public thoughts on the matter sounded somewhat
scathing. I must have just come from a particularly disappointing class.
In truth, I
am grateful to have found traditional dance with superb drumming; it is
everything I expect from dance, including and especially the multigenerational
aspect. Dance in Africa is much more likely to encompass students of all ages.
True to form, my class is filled with 4 or 5 paying adults and a multitude of
Ivorian children. I say children but they
range in age from maybe 7 to twenty something. It’s true that I have been
dancing longer than some of them have been alive. This fun fact has helped me
realize two things.
The first-
there is something to be learned from everyone.
One of the youngest boys there is an amazingly supple dancer- a rubber
band kid. His back moves in ways that defy a Western spine. And he exudes pure
delight. His smile suggests there is little effort to his movement, or, more
likely, he is filled with enough passion to make the effort joyous. During his solo at the end of one class, the
drummer increased the tempo- a dare to the dancer to keep up, each one
increasing their speed until one declares the other a winner. The boy kept
time, his feet moving faster and faster, his smile growing larger and larger
until he dissolved in a bundle of laughter on the floor. The other kids jumped in to join the movement,
a way of encouraging him and he immediately bounced back up and began
again until finally declaring he’d been bested. It was no failure on his part, but
rather a display of his skill and agility. And perserverance. Excellent lessons for life. Give your all with a huge smile and when you fall, gather your friends around and get back up. I strive to keep that sense of joy and pleasure evident.
I like to
follow him, observe his style and soak up his happiness. In my years of dancing, I have developed a bad
habit of only smiling when I am struggling. It’s a defense for doing it wrong
and knowing I am doing it wrong. While it’s ok to laugh at myself, it’s also
important to celebrate what I can do.
Which
brings me to the second point. I’m not always wrong. This might seem like an
obvious idea but after dancing for so long with the best of the best, I tend to
assume the Africans are always right. However, as I mentioned earlier, I’ve now
been dancing longer than some of them have been alive. We’re all students and
sometimes I am more familiar with a movement or I have observed more carefully.
There have been occasions when my partner is not correct and I am. My habit is
to normally follow whoever I am with and when we differ I usually give in to
them. This results in a bit of frustration on my part because I am either
completely confused about who is right, or I know I am right and end up dancing
it wrong- which I really hate to do. I finish
my turn across the floor quickly and hurry to get on to a new step. This
doesn’t do much for confidence building or my skill as a dancer.
One
Saturday, one hot Saturday when all the best dancers were in attendance, the
rhythm was strong and the steps were sweet, I had the opportunity to be dancing
behind a very young girl- maybe 6. Her movements were not perfected or full of
expression but they were clear. I could easily identify which steps she was attempting.
She had two partners, older guys who were dancing with energy and enthusiasm.
At one point, the teacher had given the direction to start from the top. The
young girl apparently missed this and began at the last step we’d completed. Her
two partners started at the beginning. It was obvious the line was not in
sync.
After a few
minutes, the teacher stopped them and asked them to begin again. “You have two
papas,” one of the drummers told her. “Follow your papas.” In fact, they had made
some motions to her to change her step, but she held such belief in herself
that she insisted she was right and thought they
should follow her. While she may have
been wrong in this case, I completely admired her conviction. She knew what she
knew and she knew she was right (even if she was wrong.) I need some of that.
In the end, I realized that I can only get out of the class whatever I put in. If I find some days less challenging than others, then I am the one who needs to make the change. If I find some rhythms harder to keep in tune with, then I am the one who needs to ask for more instruction. Take charge of my learning- it’s something I am always telling my students to do.
Dancing,
while long a passion, has not been easy for me. Somewhere in my teens I picked
up a self- consciousness that gets in the way of true abandon. The cutthroat NY
classes did little to nurture my tender spirit. Sometimes I am surprised by the
encouragement and good feelings floating around my class. It's not a
competition. I really love that. And I love learning. I’m ready to embrace this
final challenge- throw fear (and those sunglasses I've been hiding behind) out the window and actually give in to joy.
