(First, let me clarify: I do not hate the act of people dancing. I hate when the expectation is that I should join them, whether I want to or not. I don’t, because there is nothing I enjoy about participating.)
As a kid, I loved to sing. At 5, my Sunday School teacher nicknamed me “Englebert Humperdinck,” which I didn’t understand, but seemed to be a compliment. I was in every school choir that would have me, including what was still called Boy’s Glee Club my freshman year. (Our fresh-from-IU teacher, the wonderful and lovely Debbie Threlkeld, mercifully changed it to Men’s Chorus.)
And then, Ms. Threlkeld convinced choral director Gordon Wilder that the spring musical should be West Side Story, using our Men’s Chorus to bolster the cast. Too intimidated to audition for a singing role, I was happy to find a place in the chorus and the onstage rumbling as a Shark. Eagerly learned the music right away.
The choreography, on the other hand …
Eventually, Ms. Threlkeld got tired of trying to keep me in step and found places to stick me – like at a table at the back of the Dance at the Gym sequence, just being that kid who didn’t have a date and was clearly too shy to ask anyone to dance. I played the role convincingly. Our three performances were fun and gave me an appreciation for the sheer ecstasy of making an entire audience react. (We also did a rendition of “Gee, Officer Krupke” at a concert, and nerdy me looked even more so as he drew a huge laugh with his line: “Hey, I got a social disease!”)
Continuing in the choral program would mean being obligated to join the swing choir (there were only so many guys), and that would involve choreography. Mr. Wilder is one of those extraordinary teachers everyone remembers with fondness, but the appreciation for whom doesn’t always emerge before the benefits of maturity. He was strict in manner, refined in his musical taste, and nobody had higher expectations, all unattractive traits to an unmotivated 14-year-old. The thought of three years of singing the same four measures over and hearing “Kids! Kids!” between each attempt sealed the deal.
West Side Story was the last time I sang publicly. I performed with my college theater, but never auditioned for musicals, because that would have involved … well, you know.
So why am I telling you all this? I know most people enjoy dancing, and it’s one of the greatest joys for some people. I respect that and actually admire their skills on the stage or the dance floor. Heck, my first client after college was famed prima ballerina Maria Tallchief’s dance company. I’m entirely serious.
But please don’t try to force your love for dancing on other people who don’t share it. I mean adults and I especially mean teenagers. A lot of the people who really love dancing impart their passion more fervently than someone who hasn’t yet recovered from Sunday’s tent meeting. It’s nice to invite someone else to dance. It’s not nice when you insist they do so.
I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been at wedding receptions or other live music settings, and endured relentless pressure to get out on the dance floor. “Everybody can dance! It’s fun! Don’t be shy! Don’t sit there like an idiot. What’s wrong with you?” I know they mean well, because dancing makes them so happy. It has the exact opposite effect on me. First, I just can’t do it. The two-step is one step too many for me. I can stand on a stage and speak to 1,000 people with zero hesitation or fear. But being coerced or physically dragged into dancing in public is terrifying, and frankly, it pisses me off.
For whatever reason, my brain cannot seem to understand or perform certain types of sequences, and patterns of physical movement fall into that category. You can show me the four simple foot movements of a particular dance. You can even put a mat with foot locations directly below me. I promise you’ll be completely frustrated or disgusted within a minute.
I don’t think it’s genetic. My parents were that couple at every wedding … the older folks all the young couples stopped dancing to watch. But I also suspect it may explain why despite my love of music and multiple attempts, I’ve never been able to learn to play an instrument. (Thank you for offering to prove me wrong, but you’d simply be the latest in a long string of frustrated would-be helpers.) I’m guessing it also goes a long way toward explaining my complete lack of the most basic athletic coordination.
I’m not exaggerating. People do Tai Chi to relax, right? I had an instructor angrily snap at me because I couldn’t keep the sequence of poses in proper order. Onstage as one of a hypnotist’s subjects, I reportedly performed all sorts of silly actions until commanded to dance. My eyes popped open and I discovered I was surrounded by writhing bodies. Even my subconscious tries to protect me from my body’s inability to match movement to time.
Again, I know dancing is a source of joy for you and you want to share that joy. But nobody you have to physically force onto the dance floor is going to have fun or appreciate your kind intentions. Instead of feeling joyful, they’ll likely be terrified, humiliated, or just plain miserable. That doesn’t mean you can’t or shouldn’t ask them to dance, but when they respond with a thanks-but-no-thanks, please don’t debate with or berate them – especially with other people around. The insistence gets embarrassing for both of us.
And even if you somehow can’t stop yourself from trying to force other adults to dance, please don’t do it to adolescents. I realize you think it’s cute to see them dance awkwardly. That’s okay, but only if it’s something they choose to do. Pushing them on the floor when they don’t want to be there means losing their trust … and makes them even more reluctant to show up at the next event where some well-meaning person like you will unwittingly make them unbelievably uncomfortable.
Dance all you want and love every moment of it. Just please don’t insist I do the same. That’s all I ask.
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