One Day I Decided that I am a Dancer

Have you ever succeeded at faking something for more than ten years? I had been faking dancing tango for longer than that. I only realized that when a teacher once told me “you are not dancing. What you are doing is thinking. And what you’re thinking is: walk, walk, walk, do figure ‘a’. Walk, walk, walk, do figure ‘b’. You gotta start dancing.” Then he danced a song in front of me using the most basic movements. My version felt like (and probably looked like) a penguin running after its mate. His looked like an animated violin helping the orchestra express the music with more texture. When I tried to do something closer to his version, I felt ridiculous, naked and self conscious. Eventually, I summoned enough wherewithal to break into true dance, without looking like an avian charmer, and what I learned is that the journey compelled me to change into a different kind of person. It changed me into the person that you had to become in order to pursue your aspiration, whatever it may be. Becoming a dancer was secondary.

I worked hard for more than half of my life at shedding identities and I succeeded excessively. I thought that with less identities I would eventually get to the baseline of simply being a good human, free of unnecessary baggage: not American, not Middle Class, not Muslim, not Programmer. Instead, I would be worldly, impartial, spiritual and interdisciplinary. I would slide in and out of domains, learn, contribute and slide out. It started working, but not like I expected it would. Whenever I committed to an activity and it started to give me joy, I withdrew afraid of identifying with it. I continued participating, but maintained a sense of detachment. I became irate when people referred to me as an American or a Programmer. What I didn’t realize until many discarded identities later was that I created an identity of no identities and I was becoming overprotective of it. A genuine agnostic, undecided on everything. What I wanted was to shed identities that I didn’t actively choose in order to have space to embody ones that I did want to become. I only did the shedding part and stopped.

These realizations were occurring to me at a milonga (a tango social) as I watched a dancer paint a Pollock on the floor with his feet. That kept me wondering about how one becomes so skilled and poetic and euphoric at the same time. I had always assumed that it was a combination of instruction, practice and devotion. But there was something more to it than that. I approached and asked him how he learned to dance like that and he said “it’s instruction, practice and devotion”. I told him that I had been taking classes for many years, practicing constantly and I never let go of tango and I still can’t paint a Pollock on the floor. What he revealed to me next lead me on an extended adventure in the underworld of the Buenos Aires milonga scene. He said “when I get up to dance, the first thing I do is embrace. Then, I remind myself that I’m a dancer and I start acting like one. Do I want to be a heartbroken dancer? An angry one? A hopeful one? Once I have my character, I listen to the music and let it take over me and my partner. The composer is driving my characters while I surrender completely. I never think of a figure and barely of my partner except for giving her the space to do what I want her to do.” I started observing him while I let my mind process what he had just said. When he sat down in between dances, he was stoic in demeanor, barely moved and just stared straight ahead as if watching an invisible TV. But when he got up to dance, he morphed into a matador. Chest up, extreme confidence, and an embrace that could protect a family of five. Then proceeded with his art work.

After my conversation with Pollock, I realized that I needed to shift my focus from the mechanics of the dance to its spirit. And to my discomfort, I might need to reevaluate my agnosticism. I might have to become a tanguero (a person that organizes his life around tango dance). But first, I had to tackle a fundamental impediment to my ambition.

My weakest point was that I was an introvert. I did well in classes, but as soon as the milonga started to form after a class, my mind started plotting the fastest route to the exit. There was a stubborn pull that wanted me to leave this place that’s crawling with strangers. I had to find a way to work with my introversion if I ever were to become a tanguero so I created a self imposed rule that prevented me from leaving the building: “You may not leave the building until you’ve danced at least one tanda (a set of 3 or 4 tango songs danced together)” and over time I increased that number to five. The counter became my crutch; whenever a rule became difficult, I reset the counter to one and worked back up to five. That worked, but I’ve quickly found a way around it; I only danced with friends. And friends usually cared more about friend things than dance things—in close embrace, my mouth to their ear and theirs to mine we gossiped our brains out about anything that moved, breaking the fundamental rule of tango: never talk while dancing. I became aware of my mind’s proclivity to find the easiest path and added the following provision to my rule: “…A tanda is counted only when danced with a new person.” For several weeks after that rule had gone into effect I had my eye out for a new person in the form of a helpless creature taking their first class and clearly wishing that anyone with a pulse would ask them for a dance. I granted them their wish and they granted me permission to go home. Mutual salvation. It was time to add a clause to prevent these shenanigan “…The new person must be intimidating to me.” I was intimidated by beautiful women that danced well (not so much by beautiful beginners). I tensed up tremendously when adding that rule, but it occurred to me that every night when I go home, I’m guaranteed to say that I’ve danced with an elegant and talented dancer. What a strange thing to be intimidated by. Nevertheless this was difficult so I leaned on my crutch and reset it back to one.

My milonga rule in its entirety at that point was: “I may not leave the building until I’ve danced at least one tanda. A tanda is counted only when danced with a new person that intimidates me. Increase the number of tandas weekly.”

In tango good dancers will not give intermediate peasants a minute of their time unless they want to fuck them. Many didn’t want to fuck me so I started being rejected. My rule was a horse that got me pretty far. I used to be the guy that would run home after class, but a kind and gentle rule, made it possible for me to stay for hours into the social and helped me work my way up, at first dancing with friends, then with helpless beginners, and it got me to the front door of skilled dancers though many wouldn’t open it. It was time to dismount the horse, but my debt to it didn’t end there. It provided me with a piece of self wisdom that changed how I think about myself. I had always assumed that I was an introvert. When I went out of my apartment, I needed an equal or greater amount of time in it when I returned. After big events, I would spend a full day at home in bed hugging my pillows tensely listening to the loud sad music of C.W. Stoneking to recover. Completely dysfunctional for days. But now I went to a class with dozens of people and I stayed at milongas with a hundred more and I danced and mingled to then go home full of energy ready to repeat the whole thing the following day. How was I an introvert? It seemed like a misdiagnosis that gave me too much cause to shelter myself more than I needed to. I started to pay attention and noticed that only when I went to new places I would need recovery time the following day, but if I went to a familiar place, I was fine. The revelation was that it was stress¹ that was turning me into a pillow hugger, not introversion. This freed me from the introvert label and gave me new ways to deal with this type of problem. My primary defense against social burnout used to be to avoid new events and if I had to do them, I had to plan a day or two of recovery afterwards making my tanguero quest untenable. But now instead of avoiding milongas (or any social events), I built gradual familiarity with them by staying a little longer each time and getting to know more regulars. After a while the venue started to feel like home and the people like old friends eliminating the need for recovery.

Back to rejection. If you think that rejection is hard picture yourself on the receiving end of it in front of all your acquaintances and all prospective dance partners. No self help book can be created to help you deal with this. This made me revisit my tanguero quest to truly understand why it was something that I wanted to do. Why does tango have so much pull on me and hadn’t let me go for all these years? What was it about watching Pollock that made it OK to have to deal with the challenges it takes to paint and be free like him? Is this the time to abandon tango and move on to other things?

It was two things that made him so appealing. First, he was there with a table full of friends that seemed to know each other for decades. They ate, they drank, they laughed, they talked and they danced until morning and then walked each other home when the band was packing their bandoneons (an accordion like instrument). I had been an immigrant my whole life. I was born in my home country to be moved out of it to a strange nation of wild animals to be again moved out of that to a stranger nation of wild divisions. The price of a life full of adventure came at the expense of deep roots. I imagined myself having regular weeknights where I would go to a table full of friends with my seat always reserved. That felt like it would satiate my yearning for deep friendships. The second appeal was as deep as good friendships: unity. Imagine that you’re a painter sitting in front of a blank canvas with your lover who’s also a painter sitting in your lap. You’re both holding your paintbrushes and leading each others’ disappearing lines. Your blue curve is followed by her yellow straight line. She’s smiling a faint satisfied smile. Neither of you know where the lines are going to lead, but the only way is to let your hands be moved by something that can be only described by what it’s not. It’s not intention. It’s not control. It’s not communication. And when you’re done, you won’t get to look at the finished work, you only get to enjoy the process of creating it and maybe you’re left with a memory of it. It’s like Tibetan monks meticulous creating intricate sand mandalas that symbolize the universe and the interconnectedness of all things to immediately destroy them as they reach peak beauty. Even monks need to be reminded of impermanence. Yes, I wanted my life to include deep friendships and impermanent unity.

I revisited my rule and realized that a world as rich as Argentine Tango cannot be entered with rules. It must be entered using its own language.

The first word in Argentine Tango is ‘embrace’. The whole genre including the music, the dance and the poetry depend on it. You either give your soul up completely to your partner or you don’t. There is no in between. This is not technique like where to place your hand on her back or how your upper arms should touch or how to relax your shoulders or how to hold her hand or how to position your head. All these matter, but only in the service of giving up your soul. Think of the things about you that make you the most embarrassed and most ashamed and imagine yourself telling them to a stranger that you just decided trust. You know that they will hear the quiver in your voice and see how you look like when you feel unworthy of love. That’s because you’re so close together that she can feel your heart beat communicating all these vulnerabilities and you can feel hers reacting to them. All this is happening in the first few seconds of the dance. You haven’t even started yet. I only learned what the embrace meant when I moved to Argentina. One evening, my porteño (a person born and raised in Buenos Aires) friend led me into a party and when we arrived he hugged the first person he saw—for what seemed like an eternity—then they kissed and had a quick conversation though it felt like they exchanged more than small talk. I shook that person’s hand keeping a safe American 7-foot distance. When he ran into the next person, the same thing transpired and kept transpiring with others until we reached his circle of actual friends—about 14 people sitting in an actual circle—and the hugs and kisses ensued at whole different level. To my horror, they wouldn’t accept my 7-foot distanced hand shake and each would pull me in for a hug and kiss. What a nightmare. I took an oath to never go out in Argentina again. As the days went by, I started to notice this everywhere: the barbershop next to a restaurant I frequent is regularly fronted by the owner hanging out with his son, the son’s feet raised on his dad’s lap, the dad’s hand massaging the son’s neck while they’re lovingly conversing. My dad sends me a Happy New Year text message on New Year’s Day and a belated happy birthday message, usually a day or two after my birthday. Argentina is different. People there know how to love and how to show it. I needed to start by being comfortable with hugging and kissing and loving and showing it.

I must let my embrace reveal everything about me with confidence. That was my first rule-resistant challenge.

If the embrace is offering up your soul, then the Tango music is offering up your body. Dancers who have been dancing the same song since they could walk, never know how they’re going to express or interpret it. A tango song has many layers and a dancer could pick a layer and dance it for the whole song or they could mix and match between the layers dancing different rhythms and different melodies. The leader could decide to let his partner dance small parts of the song or he could take full control and lead every single step. No one knows what’s going to happen. To add to the possibilities, as your musical ear improves, you’ll start to hear the same song in a different way. A dancer once told me “I had been dancing to a song by Di Sarli for 14 years and these days when I hear it, I’m completely drawn to the violins. It’s like all the other accompaniments and instruments have disappeared. I never noticed the violins before. I now I get excited when it’s played because it’s like I’m dancing to something brand new.” Expressing the music has more to do with your mood on that day and how the music is unfolding it than it does with decisions of how to dance. I, on the other hand, plan my whole week down to the hour. My daily planner has items that read “Sleep 8 hours”, “Drink coffee at 8am”, “Go to the bathroom before starting work” and so on planning all my tasks until bedtime. I still remember the reaction of my first tango teacher, who lived on the 14th floor of a high-rise, when I asked her “how can I write down every single step I’m going to dance so I could memorize it and dance better?” She started to look for the nearest window to jump out of. The dance is deeply structured, yet it’s fundamentally improvised. I had a hard time holding these two opposing ideas in my head. My mind thrives on predictability and structure. I needed to learn how to let go.

I must let myself be danced by the music. That was my second rule-resistant challenge.

Although I improved technically and I successfully pushed myself to do things that were out of my comfort zone, I still felt like I was at the periphery. At milongas, I was like a visitor that was getting good at sneaking in a few safe dances here and there. These thoughts were occurring to me as I was dancing with an amazingly beautiful and skilled dancer. There I was, mission accomplished, but why was I still feeling like an outsider? Why was I not enjoying myself? Why was the fear of rejection still overwhelming? The answer was simple: I was still faking. I was attracted to an activity and I was trying to navigate it with my own language. Not the one it required of me. Then and there I made a decision: from that moment on, I was to assume that I was a dancer. A dancer was one of my new chosen identities.

I think a more precise word than stress would agoraphobia. ↩