When I was a boy, my family lived on an army base near Augusta, GA. There were many dogs in the subdivision where we lived. A hound named ‘Wiggles’ comes to mind as I lie here in my bed, at six a.m., in Farmington, NM. Wiggles had a lot of character and was a visual phenomenon, as well, being the bastard child of a German Sheppard and a Dachshund. He had the snout and the dirty blond coat of the Sheppard and the long body and short legs of the Dachshund.
Wiggles was nobody’s friend. Not Man’s, not Woman’s, not Boy’s, not Girl’s best friend. He was a loner. No one knew whom he belonged to, he just showed up one day and ran around the yards between the houses. He would allow you to pet him but his tail never wagged and he never wore that pseudo-smile canines have when we think they are happy.
As I think back, I have to wonder if he knew we all made fun of him and delighted in imagining the moment of his conception. Was the mother the Dachshund and the father the Sheppard? Or vice versa? Was he such an outcast that he hung around us children out of sheer loneliness but refused to be friendly because he knew what we were all saying about him? Maybe he sensed our mockery whenever we called his name and laughed because he was such an odd sight to behold.
Whenever we played with something, a ball, a Frisbee, etc., Wiggles would always try to take it from us. Sometimes he succeeded, usually when we had tired of the game, and he would run off behind the houses with his new possession. If you tried to take it back from him, he would growl and snap quite ferociously. Wiggles was very possessive.
If the other dogs were jousting over a toy, Wiggles would try to enter the fray but he was always outmatched, even by the smallest scrap of a hound. His body was not built for speed or maneuverability.
One day, Wiggles had a plastic bag and he ran around the yards between the houses with the bag in his mouth. I had never seen the critter so happy, running back and forth with it, pinning it to the ground, tearing at it. It wasn’t long before he was surrounded by a pack of dogs who wanted his prize. Wiggles did something that surprised me, and probably the other dogs, too: he ate the bag.
I kind of feel like Wiggles, sometimes, a stranger in a strange world, dancing with a group of people I hardly know; a tradesman in a world of elites: doctors, artists, engineers.
Men have a lot in common with dogs, maybe that is the source of our attraction to the species. It is difficult for men not to feel possessive in our relationships with women. In tango, the desire to possess is the catalyst that releases a particularly strong emotion: jealousy.
We are not dogs, all though many women, I am sure, will argue that point until their last breath, and we can’t just eat the women we want nobody else to have. We are human beings, bound by laws and traditions and our mouths and stomachs are just not big enough to complete the task quickly.
When I first arrived here, I danced with a woman at a tango event. I offered her my frame and she came in for the close embrace. She was very warm, her body was soft and pleasant pressing against mine. She smelled clean, like she had just gotten out of the shower, with just a hint of patchouli. I delighted in breathing her in. I could tell from the first ocho that she had spent hours perfecting her technique, her pivots were well-carved, her steps matched the length of my intentions completely.
It was not a perfect union, however. She seemed to need me to go slow, even though the music was fast. I tried various schemes to get her to speed up but she would not, so I capitulated and moved to the rhythm she seemed to be hearing in the music. It was probably that act of capitulation that drew me to her. Once I slowed down, we were able to move together with more harmony, and, surprisingly, more musicality. The man leads the movement but the woman leads the dance.
We’ve danced several times. Each time I learned more about her, a different way to get her to do this or that movement. Still, it was not a perfect union.
I saw her at a milonga, recently. I danced with her on two different tandas, each encounter better than the last. I waited to ask her again. It would be presumptuous for me to invite her to the dance floor too many times in succession. She might feel awkward and I would ruin a dance relationship that could possibly provide me with a much needed release in my tenure out here in the American Southwest.
As I waited, I drank a little wine. I danced a little but my partners were uninteresting. I drank a little more and soon I was sitting at my table in a funk, feeling like Wiggles, an outcast, hanging out with the kids so he won’t feel lonely but not interacting with them, bonding with them, being human.
Then my ‘plastic bag’ floated by in the arms of another man. He was a great dancer. When I saw him leading her to the faster rhythms in the music, I knew the problem was me. I was not man enough, not skilled enough, not insightful enough to lead her to the more rapid beats of the song.
I was jealous. She looked so good dancing with him. He was leading her into movements she never thought possible. Such is the power of tango to take us to places we never thought we’d visit, only to discover we can in the arms of the right partner. She was smiling, worse, she was laughing. She was absolutely delighted.
My mood sunk even deeper into the depths of depression. I was not going to be much fun for anyone, so I left.
As I lie here in bed, in my hotel room, I realize that was the right thing to do. My sour disposition was mine alone and I didn’t need to share that with anybody at the milonga.
Tango is an intense dance. The fullness of the embrace is unlike that of any of the other social graces. This is what makes it so compelling. It is this connection between two dancers that draws powerful emotions from us, primal feelings: possessiveness, lust, submission, domination. If we were dogs, this would lead to chaos but we are not. We are human beings, and, if we can control our emotions, this dance can lead to something wonderful, something necessary in our lives: release.
No comments:
Post a Comment