other women laughed and nodded in agreement.
I stepped into the room where the practica had just started and watched Allen leading a fairly advanced dancer around the floor. It couldn’t be easy for men, either. Earlier, during class, Dario had asked, “When the woman doesn’t know to go into a forward ocho, whose fault is it?”
No one answered, so he called on Allen.
“It’s always the leader’s fault,” Allen had responded, and we all laughed.
“Brown-noser,” I whispered to him.
“Very good, Allen,” Dario said.
Going to the practicas after lessons was critical for improvement, but they could be oh so painful for a beginner. At the practica that afternoon, I sat on the metal folding chair and pretended I didn’t notice when men avoided making eye contact with me as they whisked by and asked other women to dance; once, Irish Guy neared and my spirits rose, only to watch him lean over and invite the woman sitting next to me to dance. The term for women who aren’t asked to dance and who sit all night is
la planchadora
— literally, “the ironer.”
Typically, you danced a tanda of three to five songs with one partner. Then a short interlude of nontango music played — a
cortina
— and you found a new partner. Unless the experiencewas particularly bad, then usually one person — whoever suffered the most — excused him- or herself. While
milonga
is a term for a social gathering where people dance tango, it’s also a faster, more upbeat song and dance than the tango. It’s thought to be a precursor to tango, but dancers learn it after they know the tango. While the milonga played, a very tall, thin man with brittle blond hair extended his hand to me.
“I don’t know how to dance a milonga,” I explained.
He insisted.
Did he think I was being modest, claiming I couldn’t dance, in order to blow him away on the dance floor? We don’t live in that kind of culture: I remembered a Chinese student in my freshman writing class. One day she told me she had just interviewed for a job in the school’s math lab. When the interviewer asked her if she was good at math, she answered, “No, I’m very bad.” In China, where humility is the custom, this means, “I’m excellent at math.” I laughed, then explained our way of promoting ourselves. I suggested that she go back and tell the interviewer that she was indeed good at math. This made her so uncomfortable that I proposed she at least go tell them about the Chinese custom as she had told me. They hired her.
The blond guy wasn’t Chinese, so “I don’t know how to milonga” should have been straightforward. But he didn’t slow down, make his lead clear, or release me into open embrace. He kept me pulled tightly to him and slung me around like a stuffed animal in a dog’s jaw. After one song of mutual misery, he strode off and not only never made eye contact with me again but quickened his pace, darting by whenever he saw me.
I wanted to follow him, arguing, “I told you I didn’t know how to milonga.” But I never did; I just avoided eye contact, too. The Irish man I had danced with after my first class not only avoided my glance but also turned his entire head in a different direction whenever he caught sight of me. At him, I wanted to shout, “You can say hello. I won’t make you dance with me.”
Another man, with a rigid, erect carriage and straight black hair that brushed his shoulders, invited me to tango at one practica. I explained that I was a beginner, which was both an apology and an explanation. He took it on himself to correct my every move.
“Lean back more, I need to feel the pressure of your back against my hand,” he said. “Stand straighter,” he demanded. “Walk smoother. Your neck should be elongated.” His lead was so subtle and hard to decipher and his criticisms so rapid-fire that I thought for sure he’d abandon dancing with me after the first song; in fact, I hoped he would. Instead, he kept
I stepped into the room where the practica had just started and watched Allen leading a fairly advanced dancer around the floor. It couldn’t be easy for men, either. Earlier, during class, Dario had asked, “When the woman doesn’t know to go into a forward ocho, whose fault is it?”
No one answered, so he called on Allen.
“It’s always the leader’s fault,” Allen had responded, and we all laughed.
“Brown-noser,” I whispered to him.
“Very good, Allen,” Dario said.
Going to the practicas after lessons was critical for improvement, but they could be oh so painful for a beginner. At the practica that afternoon, I sat on the metal folding chair and pretended I didn’t notice when men avoided making eye contact with me as they whisked by and asked other women to dance; once, Irish Guy neared and my spirits rose, only to watch him lean over and invite the woman sitting next to me to dance. The term for women who aren’t asked to dance and who sit all night is
la planchadora
— literally, “the ironer.”
Typically, you danced a tanda of three to five songs with one partner. Then a short interlude of nontango music played — a
cortina
— and you found a new partner. Unless the experiencewas particularly bad, then usually one person — whoever suffered the most — excused him- or herself. While
milonga
is a term for a social gathering where people dance tango, it’s also a faster, more upbeat song and dance than the tango. It’s thought to be a precursor to tango, but dancers learn it after they know the tango. While the milonga played, a very tall, thin man with brittle blond hair extended his hand to me.
“I don’t know how to dance a milonga,” I explained.
He insisted.
Did he think I was being modest, claiming I couldn’t dance, in order to blow him away on the dance floor? We don’t live in that kind of culture: I remembered a Chinese student in my freshman writing class. One day she told me she had just interviewed for a job in the school’s math lab. When the interviewer asked her if she was good at math, she answered, “No, I’m very bad.” In China, where humility is the custom, this means, “I’m excellent at math.” I laughed, then explained our way of promoting ourselves. I suggested that she go back and tell the interviewer that she was indeed good at math. This made her so uncomfortable that I proposed she at least go tell them about the Chinese custom as she had told me. They hired her.
The blond guy wasn’t Chinese, so “I don’t know how to milonga” should have been straightforward. But he didn’t slow down, make his lead clear, or release me into open embrace. He kept me pulled tightly to him and slung me around like a stuffed animal in a dog’s jaw. After one song of mutual misery, he strode off and not only never made eye contact with me again but quickened his pace, darting by whenever he saw me.
I wanted to follow him, arguing, “I told you I didn’t know how to milonga.” But I never did; I just avoided eye contact, too. The Irish man I had danced with after my first class not only avoided my glance but also turned his entire head in a different direction whenever he caught sight of me. At him, I wanted to shout, “You can say hello. I won’t make you dance with me.”
Another man, with a rigid, erect carriage and straight black hair that brushed his shoulders, invited me to tango at one practica. I explained that I was a beginner, which was both an apology and an explanation. He took it on himself to correct my every move.
“Lean back more, I need to feel the pressure of your back against my hand,” he said. “Stand straighter,” he demanded. “Walk smoother. Your neck should be elongated.” His lead was so subtle and hard to decipher and his criticisms so rapid-fire that I thought for sure he’d abandon dancing with me after the first song; in fact, I hoped he would. Instead, he kept
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