My First Dance

My First Dance

Seven of my eight years in elementary school were spent in Catholic schools.  Grades 5-8 coincided with the on-set of puberty.  It was then I started noticing girls.  I didn’t know why.  I had a sister, and she was nothing special, she was mostly an annoyance.

But there must have been something about girls that was different.  The blood-thirsty, Felician nuns who taught us at St. Helen’s School, didn’t explain why boys and girls had to be kept separated, in the classroom and on the playground.  There must be a reason, but they didn’t let us in on it.   We had to figure it out for ourselves.

It wasn’t too difficult to figure out if you thought about it.  All young teen-agers are curious about the hormonal changes they are experiencing.  That’s why they must be kept apart, especially girls.  Girls, I understood, if you said certain things to them, and touched them in certain ways, would be unable to control themselves sexually.  I didn’t learn that in school.  I learned that in after-school, playground sex-ed lessons.  I never did learn the magic phrases and touches.

Then, one day, I found myself, a grade 9 student, in a public high school, where the sexes mixed freely, except in the washrooms and the gym locker rooms.  Not only that, the school held dances.  I had never been to a dance, but I knew about them from movies.  Dances are one of those times when you can do the talking and touching that makes girls tear their clothes off.

But one thing at a time, I had to learn to dance first.  I couldn’t go to a dance without dancing.  I don’t recall how I arranged it, but I got an aunt of mine, who was only several years older than me, to give me dancing lessons.  It only took a couple of lessons to master the rudiments of the waltz and the two-step.  Besides that, the Bunny Hop was all the rage at the time.  I knew how to do that from TV.   I was ready for the dance.

But I must digress for a moment.  When I was a kid, my Dad and I spent a good deal of time in down-town Milwaukee.  We went to gyms and watched boxers working out.  We went to movies downtown.  We had a favorite Chinese restaurant, where the waiter never wrote anything down, and never got anything wrong, as far as I know.  There was a tailor shop near where Dad usually parked the car.  And one day there was a sport coat in the window, a plaid sport coat.  It was the sort of garment that might be worn by members of a band, or maybe by a singing group.

Dad said, “That is sure one sharp jacket, huh?”  I said it sure was, but I didn’t mean it.  I was just agreeing with Dad.  It was best to just agree with him.  It upset Dad if anyone disagreed with him.  Because that meant his judgment was being questioned, and his judgment was impeccable.  So sure, it was a really ‘sharp’ sport coat.

The next couple of times we were downtown and passed by the tailor, Dad made some comment about the sharp plaid sport coat.  And I always nodded in agreement.  Then one day the window was empty.  Dad didn’t say anything.  And I thought, well that was that, no more plaid sport coat. But I was wrong.

The day of my first high school dance finally arrived.  I was ready, giddy with anticipation for what was about to take place.  It was almost time to leave, I was putting the final touches of Wildroot Cream Oil on my head, and Dad showed up with a surprise.  You guessed it: the plaid sport coat.  He said since I liked this jacket so much, he got it for me to wear to my first dance.

At that time I had adapted to an over-bearing, week-end Dad (who didn’t make it every week-end), who could be a bit of a bully, by not confronting him, by letting him think I agreed with him.  And especially by avoiding situations that were apt to be confrontational.  I had absolutely no experience in challenging him.  I didn’t have the slightest idea of what to, or how to do it.

Maybe it wouldn’t fit.  It’d be too small, or way too big.  But no such luck.  It fit pretty well.

So I had to wear the stupid, fucking plaid sport coat to my first dance.  The weeks in the tailor’s shop window had caused the left side of the jacket to become less vibrant than the right, but Dad didn’t notice, or he ignored the fading.

This was my first experience of this kind, I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t want to rush into anything.  I had planned, at first, just to hang back and see what was happening.  When I had some idea of how things worked, I’d join in.  My plans changed when I donned the plaid sport coat.  All thoughts about the dance, and what might happen there, vanished. 

By the time I entered the gymnasium and was officially at the dance, dancing was the farthest thing from my mind.  I was certain that I was the center of attention of everyone in the room, and that they all shared the same thought: Who’s the dorky kid in the plaid coat?  Probably everyone didn’t feel that way, maybe a few folks did.  But even if they did at first, me and my jacket were ignored, then forgotten.  Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my outfit was something of a joke.

The lights dimmed, and the dancing commenced.  I observed from the sidelines for a while.  Some of the dancing I observed could have been the two-step I had practiced.  I’d wait until that kind of song came around again, and if the dancers were doing what looked like a two-step, I’d join in.  But who would I dance with?  I’d have to ask someone, but who?

Here I was, right where I wanted to be, but I didn’t know what to do next.  At my previous school, social conventions regarding boy/girl communications were not discussed, in fact, they were actively discouraged.  So, what do I do?  Go up to a girl and say, hey wanna dance?  Or should I start a conversation first?  If so, what should I talk about?

And I’m pondering all these possibilities before I have any idea of who I’d ask to dance.  I don’t see any girls I know from St. Helen’s, although I know a few of them do attend Pulaski H.S.  There are girls I recognize from some of my classes.  I don’t know them.  Should I ask one of them to dance?  Should I go and talk to them?  What about?

Then I remembered the plaid sport coat.  Besides not knowing what to say, I was dressed as some sort of buffoon.  Would it make any difference what I said, dressed the way I am?  Too bad, but that’s what I got on, and I’m at my first dance, and I’m going to dance!  I spotted a girl from my English class.  She was pretty, a nice smile, and she seemed friendly.

I had decided on who I would ask to be my first dance partner.  All I had to do was ask her.  A simple enough task, except for the socio-emotional component.   I never really danced, except with my aunt.  I really hadn’t had much dancing experience, and I had less experience in asking girls to dance.  I started having second thoughts about the whole thing.  What if she thought I was clumsy, that I was not a good dancer?   Or what if she just said no, I don’t want dance?

My first dance wasn’t turning out anywhere near what I hoped or imagined.  I was just about to head for home, and try again another time, when the band struck up a familiar tune.  The Bunny Hop!  I joined in enthusiastically.  I hopped, and I hopped, and I hop, hop, hopped!  And all my uncertainties and misgivings I danced away.  This is what I came here for, to dance, and I danced!

The song ended, but I was just getting started.  I was ready to go.  I went up to the girl from my English class and asked her if she would like to have the next dance.  She said no, and walked away.  Was it my spirited Bunny Hop, or was it the plaid jacket that caused her reaction?  We’ll never know.

That was the last dance at Pulaski H.S. that I ever attended.  I never really did get into dancing.   I don’t know what happened to the plaid sport coat.  It disappeared into the depths of a closet, and was never seen again.