It's the Moment That Changed Everything...And It's All in Your Head David Molina

                                                    

                                       It’s The Moment That Changed Everything

And It’s All in Your Head

Oh, when you were young,
did you question all the answers?
Did you envy all the dancers
who had all the nerve?

Look around you now,

you must go for what you wanted.

Look at all my friends who did

and got what they deserved.

I am older now.

I have more than what I wanted,

But I wish that I had started

long before I did.

It was June 1967, and when the Sisters of Mercy announced there would be an eighth-grade dance, there was much excitement amongst the girls and high anxiety amongst the boys. 

I was 13 going on 10, and short for even a 10-year-old. Girls were 14 going on 18. Did I say girls? They were women. Women with womanly curves. The anticipation of a pair of these curves swaying directly in front of me, at eye level, was very…how do you say…titillating.

When the big event came, boys lined up against one wall, girls against the opposite.  The atmosphere was tense. Two armies were poised, ready for battle— beautiful Elven princesses versus stubby little Hobbits. Sister Mary Justitia patrolled the no-man’s land between the two. Sister Mary Rufus secured the perimeter.

The scene was poised for great deeds and heroic action, yet I was betrayed by my 13-year-old chemistry: dry mouth and wet underarms. Squeezing my arms to hide the dark circles under my shirt only made them worse.

The music started.  But Mick Jagger would not be urging eighth graders to Spend the Night Together, because the watchful Sisters of Mercy would make sure we would Get No Satisfaction as far as the Stones went.  No, DJ Sister Petula was locked and loaded with a playlist of carefully contemplated songs from Herman’s Hermits, the Monkees, and the Turtles.  There’ll be no orgiastic bodies thrashing about tonight, don’t you know. 

Sister Justitia wielded a mean ruler as she patrolled no man’s (boy’s?) land, and made sure the Holy Ghost would preserve sufficient distance to prevent any near occasions of sin.

 All was set, the record player was churning 45s, and can you guess what happened?

Nothing. The boy Hobbits were glued to the wall. Nobody made a move.

What did they expect of us? Walk across the minefield, stop in the middle, and then, in front of all your guy friends, alone and bewildered, you step to the left and look stupid. Then step to right and look stupid. 

Worst of all, these guys will tease you for the rest of your life. 

“Hey, Molina - you look like a spazz and dance like one too!” would be ringing in my ears per omnia saecula saeculorum.

I felt sorry for the girls.  A good number of them would have liked to dance, but all these nubile, freshly minted nymphs were matched with a tribe of midgets with bad breath and rank underarms. They deserved better.

The fact is, you don’t know how to dance, and any attempt will make you look extremely stupid.  Rather than humiliating yourself for all to see, you play it safe.  

As you grow older, there are ways to cope with these childish fears. Louder music, dimly lit spaces, flashing strobe lights, alcohol, and mind-altering drugs come to mind. I’m not advocating these things, but to be honest, if I had flashing strobe lights, alcohol, and mind-altering drugs in massive doses at the parish hall that night, I am sure I would have danced and had a great time.  That’s what it would have taken to drag me to no man’s land. No, we were hanging on to the wall like passengers on the Titanic.

When high school dances began, I managed to be busy doing more important things almost every time. At least they were in the dark, loud, and anonymous. Dancing - and calling it that was a stretch - meant doing your own thing. You could flail and lurch and bend and quiver any which way, and nobody really cared.  Your date would not even be looking at you; she’d have a faraway, spacey look, like she was in a trance. At least mine all looked like that - did any of the other guys have that same problem? Never mind, I don’t want to know.

You would never be close enough to actually touch your partner. It probably would have been really uncool, but here I am merely speculating because it never crossed my mind. It was so dark I couldn’t see who I was dancing with. It was so loud I had to scream monosyllables at the top of my lungs to communicate.   

It could barely be called dancing with someone - it was more like two separate people dancing in separate bubbles, trying hard not to look at each other. Dancing zombies. The few times I ventured out, I was a dancing zombie with a dry mouth and wet underarms.  

A strange thing happened during the fall of my sophomore year. During a dance in the high school gym, I screwed up my courage (and underarms) to the sticky point and asked a girl to dance. A girl with long black hair, beautiful eyes, and a smile. I felt she was way out of my league. Confused, I asked her anyway. We danced - she swayed gracefully like an aspen in the autumn breeze, while I flailed and lurched and bent and quivered. It was dark, but not so dark that I could see she was ACTUALLY LOOKING AT ME. I tactfully adopted a faraway spacey look, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw that not only was she looking at me, she was actually smiling at me.  

This was beyond anything I ever imagined. Is this really happening? I forgot how self-consciously foolish I felt thrashing and flopping like a flounder on the dance floor. When she most unexpectedly kissed me, the hook was set. 

But I soon found out something fishy.

 Long, tragic story short: I invited her to the Homecoming dance. She accepted. I begged my parents to let me try out my brand new drivers license.  Wisely, they ruled that I could drive the family station wagon and meet her at the dance rather than pick her up at her home.

 I arrived at Homecoming breathless, only to find she was not there. I called her from a phone booth and found out she was at home and wasn’t planning on coming, either.  End of that story. When prom time rolled around again, I made sure I had better things to do.

Yes, I had better things to do…for the next forty years.

October 2008, Grass Valley

Are you ready for a miracle?

As ready as I can be!

Are you ready for a miracle?

The Spirit will set you free.

Are you ready, ready, ready, ready?

I'm ready, I'm ready for a miracle!

40 years later, I still could not, would not dance, but how I loved world music.

The chapel was built 150 years ago for a boatload of Irish nuns who immigrated to Grass Valley during the Gold Rush. I believe their mission was to maintain space for the Holy Ghost between gold miners and the saloon girls.  Aye, ‘tis those blessed Sisters of Mercy again, now don’t you know? 

The venue was a very small wooden chapel, now rebranded as a community cultural center.

The chapel was packed. A marimba band on tour from Zimbabwe, ten young African musicians, miraculously landed in our small town. Half were on drums and shakers, the other half played on handcrafted wooden balafons of different size and timbre. In stark contrast to these youthful, talented, and undeniably cool cats were Nevada County’s finest: droves of gray-haired, balding hippies dressed in tie-dyed teeshirts and jeans. There was a handful (buttful?) of bell-bottomed, septuagenarian former war protesters who gave peace a chance forty years ago. They still had the mojo and doobies in their back pocket. And they swayed and swayed to the music. Soon they were up on their feet, dancing in their bold hippie-ish manner.

I was loving the music, but scoffing at the silliness of the crowd. Where were the Sisters of Mercy when they were most needed? I, for my part, kept my cool and tapped my foot to the rousing beats sent from Mama Africa. Yes, I was cool, as the music was cool. The old hippies were certainly having fun, admittedly. They showed no remorse for doing so.

Then the thought struck me. Could I enjoy moving everything else (including my foot)  to the music? 

Oh no! I would be looking totally stupid! 

Nobody cares. They are having too much fun to notice or care.

But, but,…

Do you want to be cool, or would you rather have fun?

Yeah, of course,…everyone wants to have fun…

Not rocket science, Poindexter!

That tiny voice in my head was right. No one cares, why should I? 

Damn, this music is takin’ me higher and higher.

Trying desperately to distract myself from such thoughts, I sat tapping my foot really, really well (including contrapuntal rhythms, jazzy flourishes, professional riffs). I knew that all those gringo hippies would gasp in awe if they only stopped flopping and flailing long enough to notice me tapping out the rhythm with my foot.  Ha, fools, they’ll never know what a talent was in their midst that night! Maybe the guys from Zimbabwe will invite me to go on tour with them…

I left the concert that night a little bit sad. I really would have enjoyed to getting up and dancing, but I couldn’t.

 Several years later, I went to another concert in Grass Valley. The band played Balkan folk tunes - clarinets, fiddles, accordion; very catchy and soulful. Again, my foot, my magical musical foot, was tapping out the rhythm while the rest of Nevada County was on its two feet, twisting and twirling, apparently convinced they were villagers dancing in Fiddler on the Roof. Before you know it, an older lady was channeling gypsies, and twirling a hankie.  Before long, everybody in town was grabbing whatever could serve as a handkerchief. There was a rush on the refreshments table, and many patrons went napkinless at the intermission. No one much cared because it was soooo ethnic!

I was embarrassed— these grown-up white people running around doing the Dance of the Seven Napkins. But the thought struck me once again - who is having more fun: me or them? I thought about it.  The kicker was that they were having the fun, and I was the one who was embarrassed!  Not fair!  Again, something was way off. It seemed only fair that the people who were having the fun should be the ones to pay for it by being embarrassed. Not fair!

Then it occurred to me. They are having fun. I am already embarrassed.  As long as I’m already embarrassed, there is no longer a reason not to have fun. I’ve already paid my dues.  

Excessively cerebral? Absolutely! It is what a brain does when its feet are not moving. As soon as I threw caution (and embarrassment) to the wind, and as soon as my feet started moving, all of this disappeared.

 

As soon as feet engage in the dance, you step into an altered state. Doubts and voices fall silent.

So I got up and danced. Not with anyone in particular, I just stood facing the stage and stepped and swayed with the music. I did not look to the right of me, I did not look to the left of me. It was the spacey, far-away look strategy when dancing at the high school dance. It worked well enough. I made a concerted effort to not think about anyone else, and particularly not to think about myself. I imagined a switch on my brain marked “Dance Evaluation Center” and turned the switch to the off position. Within a minute, I was immersed in the music and enjoying myself much more than if I had been tapping my foot.  Why tap your foot if you can tap your whole body to the music?

I realized I had spent too many years watching the dancers who had all the nerve.

Shortly after the concert, I decided it was time to waive my disability waiver.

 I knew it was not going to be easy.

It’s all in your head…

  …so work on your head.

                                ——-Rico Montuno

I did not have much trouble convincing my wife, Maria to try a local dance class.

Juan, our salsa instructor, was dark, handsome, and muy, muy chaparito—very, very short despite his 2-inch cowboy boot heels. But what he lacked in height, he overshadowed with his engaging, seductive Latin Lover persona. Confident, suave, a sweet-talker, he was the kind of guy you warned your daughter to avoid. He instantly charmed all the ladies in the class with his funny, yet flirty, innuendos. Including my wife.  And I was paying for this!

 

Juan had a thick Latino accent, cosmopolitan European good looks, and graying hair slicked back. The vanity plates on his racy little sports car read:  “JUAN2DNC”.

To his credit, he got us all laughing at his comedic antics, which were very much a part of the show and his success. His diversionary tactics enabled dorks like me to forget about myself.

“1-2-3...5-6-7.…”  he counts, tight jeans, cowboy boots, and Latin hip motion in our face. Glancing languorously over his shoulder, smiling, he intimates his secret: (“I got it from my Mama…)  1-2-3...5-6-7.…….(“and you can get it from Juan!”).

We laugh, and it takes my mind off the voices in my head… 

(“Dave, you need a diagnosis, not a dance lesson!”).

1-2-3 (pause), 5-6-7 (pause): 

As he moves effortlessly, we shuffle like zombies. 

I’m ready to go to the locker room already.

Step forward with the left, replace the right, step back to the midline (pause), step back with the right, replace the left, step back to the midline (pause).  

If this seems unduly complex, it is…  because you are dancing with your brain instead of your feet. It is Juan el Suavecito versus fourteen student brains, none of which are wired for electrical impulses to their feet.

 It helps to be surrounded by people whose feet can’t do what they want. Even Maria was having problems.  We are all babies making baby steps.  

“If you feel like you are going to fall down, make sure you take someone down with you,” offered Juan.  We were all brains without feet, feet without brains, and it seems the harder you tried the worse it got.

Is this that hard, or am I that hopeless? 

I look at myself in the studio mirror. The mirror reflected itself in an opposite mirror. There before me is…  is that really me? That spastic marionette figure bobbing and thrashing, the image repeating and receding again and again into ever smaller images. Receding forever and ever into all eternity. I see myself at the Guy Who Can’t Dance Entrance into Dante’s Inferno, condemned to watch myself cha cha very badly forever. This is the moment I stand teetering on the edge of the Abyss, poised to fall forever into a gray, cold eternity where No One Dances, Mostly Because When They Do They Look Dumb. 

But then it happened.  At the very crossroad of danger and opportunity, at the very seam of two futures, an unlikely and unexpected thing happened - a miracle. The moment that changed everything.

“Here, try it with the music.”  

Base, percussion, piano, and now brass join, and now all blend together. The music goes right over, under, around, and then passes my brain altogether. My feet start moving to the rhythm. It is that moment of dance - the abandonment to the rhythm - that I feel. And my classmates as well. Suddenly, all the angst, tension, and self-consciousness dissolve, and smiles are breaking out all over, despite ourselves.

The music was calling, primal and deep inside, something hardwired for eons upon eons. It feels right, it feels fun. More than fun - joyful. 1-2-3…5-6-7… over and over, but getting better and better, easier and easier.  

Once the class was moving, Juan chimed in a few helpful hints.“Don’t look at your feet, don’t worry, they won’t walk away from you even if your partner does,”  and “Remember, amigos, when you dance salsa, altitude equals attitude  - so heads up, mamasitas!”

“Okay that’s real good, but if you ladies want business to boom, you have to use your assets…”  and Juan does this exaggerated hip sway.  “And you guys, don’t you wait for FEDEX to deliver the package!”  So we worked on moving assets and delivering packages for a while, as the basic step became easier and more fluid.  

“Now the thing about the basic step is that you have to practice it a lot, over and over again.  So tomorrow when you go to the market, I want you going down the aisle pushing the cart using your basic step, and ladies remember, if you are doing it the way Juan taught you, the Check Out guys definitely will.”

 

“And guys, when you’re at the gym and you’re on the treadmill to do the basic step, just be careful to not fly off the back and tell them Juan sent you.”

Juan continued: “Salsa is a partner dance, and the man leads and the ladies follow. I know this is about the only time it works out this way, so ladies, when you go home, things can return to normal, but on the dance floor, the man drives, and the lady rides.” 

 Everyone chuckles, several married guys get funny looks from their wife-partner-temporary follower.  

It was a long, long road but at last I was ready for a miracle. 

When the music started, it was the moment that changed everything.