19 and On

You'll notice that, contrary to custom, the above photograph is of, rather than by, me. Frankly, I've gotten lax. This was my 19th birthday: friend Emma constructed a crown bearing the inscription "HAPPY BIRTHDAY LITTLE BLUEBERRY," friend Mattie gave me a brown fur hat that matches my grandfather's old tweed fisherman's cap - so I've a matched set for spring and winter. Obviously, these girls know I'm into headwear. Chuck Shafer brough Schaefer beer and DJed my woefully inadequate party tunes (at one point, I think "Mame" came up on shuffle), and there were sugar cookies dipped in chocolate, fifty slices of North Carolina courtesy of Sammy K. We played hearts, the card game. I got beat, but in the spirit of it being my birthday (in spite of it also being past midnight and no longer really my birthday), I was declared to have had nineteen points the whole time - and thus, I was the clear winner.

I think I would have had photographs for today, had I not met with a familiar obstacle, the old click vs. dip: This evening, my friend Jordanne (with whom I've had all my out-of-town adventures) drove me to Albany for a succession of 3 tango lessons, one beginner-intermediate, a weekly fixture, and a double-length session with a guest artist.

It was a small gathering in the basement of I-don't-know-what community building, a local chapter of the Shrine Club maybe. There were 10 or 12 other people in the room, the youngest in her later 20s, the oldest probably in her 70s - and was she beautiful to watch! Angela. I foresee a friendship. She asked if I was Spanish, as she is - "You've got a little extra movement." I told her I was Italian. "Oh, then that's it."

I was also the only student without significant tango experience - Jordanne, a great dancer, taught me what little I know. I explained my constant tripping away with an "Oh, it's so different in swing! So different in salsa!" Both of those dances are broad - they offer a lot of room for creativity in even the elemental steps. Tango is relentlessly detail-oriented, and the deuce of it is that this minute precision can only be accomplished by complete relaxation.

Guest artist Diego was smooth as could be, and if there were any doubt that tango was the dance of passion, it's been dispelled by his reaction to my shoulder tension. Relax, give weight, lean in, soften. We worked for a long time on the first moment of the dance, the follower's response to the leader as they establish their stance, the torsion of their engagement and the relaxation necessary to make it happen. He paused the class to generalize the lesson for everybody. It came out like this, with a Spanish accent: "Now we're gonna work on, for the men, how to take the woman, and the woman, how to receive the man." That's pretty forward.

But as Jordanne said in the car on our hour-long drive back to Williamstown, tango is not really about sexuality. It's sensual, deeply (If you could see Angela and Diego dance!). But salsa is the sexy one. Tango is intimate.

She's dead on. Tango is a dependent relationship. It asks for vulnerability, communication, intuition, shared breath, shared control, playfulness, the trust to give yourself over. It's great therapy, I guess, and it's a helluva way to have an argument. Everything is pushback, and nobody gets an out. If the woman doesn't offer resistance, the man can't direct her - if she doesn't listen, communication stalls - if he doesn't lead with intention, the conversation fails. (And if he doesn't let her take over once in a while, things really get ugly). The parties have equal stake, and even embellishment is cooperative. Unlike swing, the couple won't release for a jive step or an individual showcase: synergy is everything.

What all this amounts to, is tango is very difficult, and tango is very rich. It made me miss the freedoms of swing and salsa - I would never choose to play only with Argentine fire - but Jordanne and I are going back each week.

It's a 5 til midnight commitment. It's a plan.