You put your right foot in, you take your right foot out, you do the hokey pokey, and you turn yourself around…
Remember that? The hokey-pokey song? Folks of my generation might.
In the arena of tango, I’m a sovereign queen, and I’m supposed to remember that, always.
I’ll never forget the first time a tango teacher asked me to “walk.” It was in Buenos Aires ten years ago, shortly after I first became interested in tango. I had no idea what I was getting myself into.
He said, walk. As in, walk around the room. So he could observe me doing so. It was intensely humiliating. It still is. After studying tango for ten years, that request, demand, order, still strikes fear into my heart and soul.
But, why?
I can’t fully answer that here and now. But, of course, a good portion of why is shame. Somehow, it made me feel totally exposed and ashamed. I didn’t understand what was being asked, or why. And I knew I wasn’t doing it, whatever it was I was supposed to be doing.
And what was that, exactly?
What is tango asking for when they ask us to “walk”?
Well, one way of saying it is, “Walk like a bitch.” That’s how my (unfortunately) scuzzy Argentine boyfriend put it ten years ago. But he was right about that. What does walk like a bitch mean? For him, it meant, walk like a badass. Walk like you’re powerful. Walk like you own the street. Walk like you own the world. Walk like you don’t care what anyone else thinks. Walk like you’ll mow them over if they try to take you down.
And that was good advice, actually.
Why am I in tango, anyway?
Tonight, I went to the Glorieta milonga in Belgrano. My new friend C. invited me. I got there around 9 p.m. It took place outdoors in a giant, round pavilion in a grassy, leafy park on a little hillock.
I immediately wondered how we were supposed to keep our things safe in an outdoor environment like this, when we’d be in the arms of our leaders, many of us with our eyes closed (the more to concentrate on the music and the movements).
As I drew closer, I saw to my amusement that the ladies (and maybe some of the men as well) had piled their belongings in the middle of the pavilion where they were kept secure by a dense moat of rotating, ambulating dancers. Yep. That would work. I did the same. Placed my tennis shoes and purse in the midst of the rest of the belongings piled there and drew back with my tango shoes to put them on from the stairs at the side.
I had two good dances, and then one bad one. The first dance was with a handsome Argentine gentleman, a great dancer who tried moves on me I’d never been presented with before, and because I’ve learned how to wait, not anticipate, and trust the leader, I was able to execute, even though they were unfamiliar. Which delighted us both.
The second dance was with an older gentleman who told me he spent ten years in Los Angeles training horses for the Santa Anita race course. He was clearly fond of those memories and now lives in the relative country in San Isidro, about half an hour from the Buenos Aires city border. He told me in Spanish that he lives among 200- and 300-year old trees, and that it makes him happy. I can imagine.
My third dance was the problem, and the reason for this article.
It was very bad. It was difficult. The guy was tall, Argentine, a little hippy—with a leather cord around his neck. He was very thin, gaunt even, and his shoulder blades popped out of his back, making it hard for my hand to find purchase.
Worse, much worse, than that, however, were… a number of things. The way he positioned me on the side of him. The way he retracted much of his chest so I got less information about what he was leading. The way he kept calling for leg wraps and leg wraps and more leg wraps. The way he began calling for leg wraps very high, and long-held. It began to make me uncomfortable.
Worse than that, though, was that his lead was muddy, unclear, and before long, I had lost faith and trust in him, and I was stumbling around.
One thing great dancers learn is how to continue looking good (i.e., elegant) even when you’re stuck with a bad dancer.
I have not mastered that skill yet.
He had me stumbling.
And I felt humiliated.
So humiliated that when the tanda ended, I fled.
My friend C. intercepted me at the top of the stairs.
“Are you leaving?” she asked in surprise. It was only the third tanda, after all.
I said, “Yes, I’m going to get dinner.”
But, I didn’t need to do that.
I didn’t need to flee.
I did not act like a sovereign queen.
That’s what Roque, my new teacher here in Buenos Aires, was trying to teach me recently.
“Step forward, fully, with your entire body. Go chest-first. Own the space. Don’t hesitate. Don’t be tentative. Go.”
Go with force, power. Grab the space, hold it. Own it.
A good “follower” is anything but passive. The best followers are not the slightest bit passive. They take and hold space. The leader invites them, and they decide how to execute the move. Some people say it’s the so-called follower who actually leads the dance. Especially when she is powerful.
When she walk like a bitch.
Walk like a lioness is another term I’ve heard. On the hunt.
Indeed.
Instead of doing any of these things, instead of holding my ground with that bad, leather cord-wearing, inappropriate dancer, I fled after the dance.
In other words, I gave up.
I sequestered myself at a nearby parilla because it was “my last night,” and why wouldn’t I have another amazing ribeye on my last night? (And half a bottle of Malbec?)
The truth is, I ran away.
I will forgive myself.
But, once again, tango reflects real life. I need to step into my life, “con el taco.”
My teacher Roque was saying, step in fully, with the heel of your shoe (the “taco”). That means, own the space. Don’t slide in tentatively with your toe. That’s a different move in tango. There are times and reasons for that. But when the time is to step confidently into the space, and expect it to be ceded, granted, then—boy oh boy—you better do it.
And doing it not only looks incredibly sexy, but it feels so too. When I do it right, I’m flooded with a feeling of power, beauty, and arousal.
Why do I study the dance called Argentine Tango?
For the psychological reasons, of course. Always for those.
Wonderful.