Claudia and Martu

Back in the arms of tango, once again

Photo by Preillumination SeTh on Unsplash

Last night, I finally returned to the arms of tango, to the embrace of tango. Why oh why do I keep stepping out of something so beautiful, something so special, something that nurtures me so? I can only assume it’s a dreadful, toxic, mean-spirited part of me that doesn’t want me to be happy and at peace, or doesn’t believe I deserve it. It’s also a streak of I-won’t-belong-to-any-club-that-will-have-me, as Groucho Marx famously said. A withering lack of self-confidence, in other words.

I also seem to have a stake in believing I’m some sort of victim in my life. Some part of me is identified with victimhood. It’s time for that part to go. I am so not a victim. In fact, I’m gifted with an embarrassment of riches.

Tango is one of those treasures. I found tango, and she opened her arms to me, and though I keep veering away, refusing to commit, she patiently waits. And she’s always there. That’s what people in the community say. “Tango waits. Tango will be there when you’re ready. Tango is always available to you.”

Like last night. Good God, to think I almost didn’t go. I decided, after letting a full two weeks slide by with no tango, and only the barest connection to tango for months (if not years) prior to that, I finally pushed myself off my duff, showered, grabbed the first dress I saw hanging, donned it, brushed some blush on, some mascara, some eyebrow pencil, tousled and blew my hair dry for a few moments, grabbed my shoes, a jacket, my glasses, and bolted, running late.

I parked idiotically in the lot, angled crazily, and fled the car, running into a security guard whom I was sure would ask me to re-park, but only said, Good evening. And then, I was up the stairs and entering the room to discover… almost no one there. And no lesson afoot either.

My heart sank. I thought it would be a desultory evening, with so-so teachers and less than so-so dancers. And it’s true that the lesson did not start scintillatingly. The male component of the couple wore a plaid coat. I guess he was cold. But it had the effect of making him seem barely there, like he had one foot out the door.

The female half of the couple began the lesson by asking what we wanted to do, an inauspicious beginning. Great, they have no plan. This will be some makeshift affair, I thought.

They settled on starting the lesson with “walking,” something I’ve never liked. Attempting to enact the “tango walk” while I traipse around a room being evaluated has always brought intense shame into my face, body, mind, and heart. I always feel ridiculous and oafish. But, walk I did.

Claudia, for that was the young teacher’s name, appeared alongside me and advised me to “grab the floor” with my feet. This seemingly obscure, bizarre tip actually helped. Just having the notion in mind woke my feet up and made me feel more grounded—always the primary goal in learning dance, martial art, and myriad other kinesthetic activities.

And, once again, a metaphor, as tango has always been for me. Grounding. I need grounding of all kinds. Dance is just one of those arenas.

After the walking exercise, we split up into couples. I had no partner. Claudia assigned herself to working with the one couple that was present and an older woman who arrived late. Martu, for that was the young man’s name, approached me and invited me to dance. He led me across the floor for a few moments, then stopped, met my gaze, and began to deliver a torrent of gems to me.

I wish I could have recorded him. I’m not going to remember everything he said to me, or the elegant and powerful way he delivered his wisdom.

It began with advice on my dance, about tone, engagement, and the like. He corrected the way I let my hip jut out on a side step, traveling past the point of control, letting inertia force me to take a step that wasn’t led. He reminded me that tango is not salsa. We don’t sway or undulate the hips. We stay very “square,” as he put it. I am square, he said. I had to find a dance that worked for me.

He instructed me to use his body, especially his hands, his frame, as leverage in my pivots. You don’t do it all yourself, on your own power. Use me for support.

I’d heard this before from Argentine teachers, but Americans often cry, “Don’t lean on me!” when I exert the tiniest pressure, so I get confused. Apparently, using the frame as leverage is not the same as leaning or pushing.

Martu also broached tone versus tension. You want to be toned, engaged, ready, but not cat-on-the-drapes terrified. Martu said, If you want to run and jump out the window, you prepare your body first. You don’t just topple out the window or flop out the window. You prepare your muscles, you engage for take-off.

At one point, when he invited me into the embrace, Martu said, Meet me. Give me back what I give you. Respond. Reflect the energy you feel. If I rise up, you rise up to meet me.

Indeed. He was training me to commit. To engage. To contact the energy, intention, invitation of the other person and commit fully to the exchange. To lock in, be brave, be real. To have pure intention. To not waffle, or change one’s mind. To not be lackadaisical or checked out. To accept. Accept the dance, the person, the moment, the mini-relationship and conversation that is a tanda, or a promise to dance four or five songs together. To see what we have and can do together and then to build on it. It’s a conversation, and it takes courage to do it well, right, in a way that opens the door for magic.

We are so shut down here. Americans. Californians. Oaklanders. Maybe I should speak for myself, but Martu said it also: In Argentina, people are more sincere.

The way this young man looked at me with utter openness, friendliness, encouragement, interest, and care took my breath—and all of my defenses and artifices—away. The way he spoke to me, and the pearls he dropped into my lap, stunned me into grateful silence. I knew as the seconds passed that I was receiving a gift.

Martu spoke to me as if I was leaving for Buenos Aires tomorrow. He coached me on tango culture. He spoke of the past, the roots of the dance, the codigos—codes. He and Claudia are traditionalists. They believe something is being lost in the dance, something important. He said, The dance is the thing, the thing you’re creating together. It’s not the “connection.” The dance itself is the connection.

He said tango is being over-sexualized. It’s not a sexual thing. Fathers dance with daughters, mothers with sons, brothers dance together. The sole focus on the potential eroticism of tango cheapens it. He said your leader has to earn that kind of embrace. It’s something you build toward with a leader you’ve vetted and decided you can trust. All these strangers draped over one another is not the point, and is a problem.

He also spoke of personal pride and dignity. He said, Be choosy. Be elegant. Select your partners carefully. Be hard to get. Don’t accept just anyone as your partner.

Have self-respect.

I’ve heard this before. I often feel sorry for beginners or bad dancers and accept a dance only to have them mishandle me on the floor to the point of risking injury. Martu said, A beginner, a true beginner, is one thing. But a leader who still dances like a beginner after 15 years because he or she didn’t put in the work, time, and dedication that this dance requires, no, you do not have to dance with that person, and you must not.

Tango takes love, he said. You have to love this dance and want to improve and work hard at it. You want to dance with others who understand this.

He seemed to be talking straight to me, saying exactly what I most need to hear, i.e., value yourself. Take yourself seriously. Understand your worth. Force others to see it too. Don’t accept less than what you deserve, what is owed you, what is your right. Have confidence. Be brave. Meet the moment. Be present, aware. Trust, but verify.

It’s dignity he’s talking about.

Martu also reminded me of the importance of “finding” my leader’s hand on my back and reaching for it with my own back, using it. A good leader is using that arm to define the perimeter of the embrace. Remembering to find and meet it is an important part of following the lead. He showed me how during a turn, leaning into his arm at my back allowed centrifugal force to help us make the turn.

This young maestro was generous with me. He led by example, showing me what an open heart is, what it means to be giving, clear, honest, direct. His gaze was kind and sincere.

I was impressed and moved by every aspect of this experience, elated to be welcomed once again into the arms of tango and its emissaries such as this beautiful young couple doing all they can to transmit the transformative power of tango to those of us who need it and can benefit from it.

As always, tango is so much more than a dance, so much more than a culture or philosophy, though it is all of those things too. For me, tango is a therapy session. It always is. It holds a mirror up to my hopes, fears, dreams, shames, insecurities, sorrows. It’s why tango is so powerful, and so scary.

At the end of the night, when I already had my tango shoes off and boots on, Claudia invited me to dance. I hesitated, gesturing to my feet. No matter, she said, and took me into her embrace.

She led me expertly, kindly, with simple, clear directions and constant support. But, I was nervous. She was so small and beautiful, so delicate. I had noticed earlier in the evening how little both her and Martu’s hands were. I was afraid I would hurt her. I felt like a 400-pound elephant. I felt like an oaf. I felt like Shrek.

As shame and fear began to rise in me, I predictably misstepped, and, reader, I stepped on this beautiful gazelle’s foot, this young artist who makes her living using her expressive feet. She was steadily kind, but at the same time, I think she was surprised, maybe even alarmed.

I could not have been more mortified. I wanted the earth to swallow me up. I was filled with hot shame and keen embarrassment. I apologized profusely. She acted like it was nothing. I pray this is true.

But, this moment was typical of how life sometimes, too often, feels to me. When the stakes are high, I choke. I ruin it. The best relationship I ever had. A great job. Someone’s trust in me. I get nervous, defensive, terrified. And then, I bolt. Or mess up.

This is why I’m in tango.

I need to forgive myself. Continually forgive myself. And try, each day, to do a little better.