I Was a Tango Anarchist

From the Comments page to My Top 10 Memorial Day Festival Highlights Shane said: You must not have seen Jessica and I dancing or I'm sure we would've made the list.

Yes. Well ...

My buddy Shane and I took lessons for six weeks last fall before Shane dropped out. We still dance together occasionally.

Months after his last lesson, he remains a fabulous lead. Strong, masculine chest and no hesitation about asserting his authority to direct my steps.

Which is pretty odd when you think about it. Shane is a skinny guy and an anarchist.

Shouldn’t his lead be milquetoast? It should say, “Please, take any steps you like. I don’t wish to impose.”

(Or, in the erudite moments following much wine: “As independent agents freely entering into the social contract of the dance, we reserve each to the other the unilateral right to rewrite the contract as we wish and on the fly, eliminating all clauses pertaining to the patriarchal imposition of will, through which, by modest extension, one may metaphorize the patriarchal dominance of Uncle Sam over the Other and BTWtheWorldBankGeorgeBushIraqSUVshaveyouhuggedatreetoday.”)

Is that any way to enter an embrace?

Better to follow the purist’s logic. Reject all authority, including your own!

As a purist, Shane can trash his anti-authoritarian stance to assert his authority as a tango lead. And I must be a purist too, because I readily surrender my feminist autonomy … for three minutes at a stretch.

And that’s just the beginning.

Last fall, Shane and I—fresh out of our second group lesson at the Merc--danced at the Labor Day festival in Cheeseman Park.

We were serious Tango Anarchists. We had no regard for steps or floorcraft. We kicked up our heels. Whenever we crashed into people, we gaily apologized.

This is how it felt to us:

Isn’t this fun? We are all in this together, packed in like sardines! Yet see how the bonhomie flows! We are kind and forbearing because really, there’s no way to avoid crashing into one another if you’re kicking up your heels in this small space.

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Imagine all the people living for today ... living life in peace ... sharing all the world.

After a while Shane observed, “These people aren't very friendly.”

Bonhomie had waned. People were beginning to glare.

So…

Following time-honored American tradition, the Free-Thinking Innocents left the Civilized World and built their own Utopia in the Wilderness—in this case, on the cement apron between the pavilion and fountain.

Out of the way, but still within reach of Civilization’s sound system.

Because, really, what fun is anarchy without a good sound system?

* * *

This year, when I saw Shane at the Cheeseman Park milonga, I assumed he was going to dance.

But not with me.

I have forsaken the wild ways of my tango youth. Small steps are lovely, floorcraft essential. It is not unnecessarily restrictive to require the man to move forward along the line of dance.

I have become Tango-Civilized.

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I have not mastered the glare, but I can tighten my lips pretty well.

Watching anarchists at a crowded milonga is like watching NASCAR. You suspect there's a crash in the offing and you fervently hope that no one gets hurt ... but you can't resist.

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There is only one way to spot the anarchists on the overcrowded magic carpet of marble that is the Cheeseman Park Pavilion.

Climb onto one of the column supports for a bird’s-eye view. Scan the crowd for mayhem. Oddly enough, I don’t see Shane and Jessica dancing.

Nevertheless, I offer this footnote:

Top Ten Highlights of the Memorial Day Festival

11. Shane, hours after the milonga and a half-mile away safely from the Pavilion, on the deck of his house: His strong, masculine chest, my surrender. No crashes into the table bearing the remains of our supper, nor the lit torches, nor Jessica and Brian, who are watching, clamoring for lessons.