Tango Smackdown! Part 2 Game Set Grisha

It is the late part of early evening. I am standing alone in the dim light at the edge of the dance floor, waiting.

I am breathing. I am sending my awareness to the parts of my body that plague my dance most: hips, axis, center. And stomach, where the butterflies are nervously milling. It won’t take much to stampede them.

This is a cold, lonely, anxious moment, waiting for the next dance to begin. In milonga or practica, group class or private lesson, it is the same: You stand alone, and you don’t know what’s coming.

This game, Tango Smackdown!, has taken a turn. It started as a lark, harmless mischief. Writers are always engaging in wordplay, throwing words together just for the joy of what happens. That’s what I have been doing with the music. But Grisha is as earnest about music as I am about writing. He knows something, and he has developed a line of thought around it. With my lighthearted game I have presented him with a teachable moment. He wants to demonstrate his line of thought, he wants me to get it. Now I am out of my depth. I don’t know where he is going. I don’t know if I can keep up.

I like this. I am an adventurer of the moment! I am eager to see what comes next. I like learning new things. I like people whose passion for something compels them to share it with others. And I am cold and lonely and anxious.

Hurry up, Grisha.

* * *

One year ago today, when I was striving to be invisible in the embrace despite my inability to totter more than two steps without falling onto my partner’s chest, Gaia whispered something to me.

A few minutes later, I found myself dancing with Glenlivet.

I reported what Gaia had said. “I am going to be a badass dancer.” I laughed, delighted by the absurdity of it.

“You already are,” Glenlivet replied.

He was not lying, really. He was doing that affirmation thing: Say your aspiration as if it were true and before you know it—voila! Also, he is a big guy. It’s possible that my falling over felt to him like a strong presence in the embrace.

* * *

I am not enamored of primitive Africa. Masks and drums and savannahs and such. The animals are OK, if you like that sort of thing. The little literature I’ve read is like all folk-lit: a mixed bag. I am especially not into primitive styles of music. With a nod to ancestral influences, I’ll take Motown any day of the week.

So when Grisha says “Bach … cantata … African drums” I don’t expect much.

He hurries to get into the embrace as the music begins.

* * *

Badass isn’t the metaphor Gaia normally used to convey the quality of a follower’s movement.

Normally she used the word lioness.

* * *

I cannot describe this music Grisha has chosen. There are voices: this is a cantata, vocal music. There are drums. There is something more, something flowing. It is not primitive. It is the music you might hear if you could hear music in outer space.

* * *

There is one thing I aspire to in tango. I see it in Julio and Corina, Demian Garcia and Carolina Bonaventura, Cecilia Gonzalez and Federico Farfaro, and a host of other performers. Locally I see it in Nina and Grisha and Nick and Tara and Brian and Deb. I see it in Geno, whomever his partner may be. David Hodgson is a master of it—in his own way, of course.

It is this:

Two strong entities facing off, entering in. Creating a shared pool of power, tapping into it. Taking what rises, shaping it, offering it up to the next moment. Oppositional but not adversarial. Well-matched. Each giving as good as they get.

Once I saw David Hodgson and Glenlivet dance a few steps. They were royal, like elephants. Each brought all his power to bear. When they moved, you felt they carried the world.

* * *

Something about the lioness metaphor bothers me. What is it? Love the color. Love the taste in male partners—arrogant, with great hair. Love the coiled power.

But, except when stalking zebras, chasing them down and tearing their throats out … what does a lioness actually do? She appears passive. Is she smart? Does she dream? Does she ever stand up to the lion?

If a lioness danced tango, would she be a badass?

* * *

With the first note of the music, I take leave of my senses.

Normally when I close my eyes I see nothing. Now I see darkness quite clearly. It is substantive as plate glass; it is deep and clear as space; it is pitch-black.

There is someone on the other side of the embrace. I recognize the quality of the intent, the shape of the movements, the size of the steps, the degree of pressure in the arm across my back. But this is not Grisha my teacher.

Grisha my teacher is scary. It is his job to throw the unexpected at me. I don’t trust him, I don’t trust my ability to catch what he throws. Every second I dance with Grisha my teacher, I teeter on the edge of disaster.

But now I am not dancing with Grisha my teacher. Now I am dancing with Grisha the Fabulous Lead.

One mark of a fabulous lead is that he dances to the follower’s skill level. Grisha is doing that, he has made us well-matched. And I am right there—I could not be more present right there—than I am right this minute.

Grisha is a musician. When he dances, he becomes a body of music.

People go moony over the tango trance. You can have all that you want. Why would I want to float off in a dream when I could stay grounded right here, wrestling an angel?

When Grisha advances, he is tracking me down. When he retreats I advance upon him. I stalk him. I stalk him!

I have no axis or wings, no technique. I cannot feel my feet. My butterflies have fainted. My center is nowhere near my third rib; it is lodged right where it belongs. It is bearing down with serious intent.

Am I a lioness? A badass? No.

I feel my partner’s power coming my way. I feel my power rise up to meet it. The music sings. We are a body of music in motion.