I like going dancing with Lalo because he never tells me to “feel the music.” This helps me to relax enough to do just that. On the contrary, when a suave dance teacher in a black spandex muscle shirt commands me to relax the effect is quite the opposite.
I’ve never recovered from the dance teachers I had in Cuba. When my friend and I first signed up for private classes we innocently assumed our instructors to be gay. This was a logical conclusion from our US perspective, considering they were two well-dressed, well-built dance teachers who lived and worked together. But the same stereotypes do
not apply in Latin American. Y. and E. were in fact flamingly heterosexual. They sized us up in one glance and chose their partner, apparently according to their individual tastes in women. Y. spent the entire time gazing at my friend’s cleavage while poor E. was stuck ordering me to “relax,” and “feel the music.” Our lessons soon came to an end because the electricity in Y. and E’s apartment went out and we had no stereo with which to practice. We tried to reschedule, but Y. and E were too occupied with their more obliging (on and off the dance floor) foreign students to make time for us.
This experience left me further convinced that dancing is a test of my femininity, as much as my ability to keep time with my feet while my partner twists me into a pretzel by a series of convoluted turns. How can I relax and “feel the music” while my very worth as a woman is being tersely evaluated by the black spandex-suited playboy who one minute tells me to move like a woman, not a robot, and the next to stop flapping my arms?
But is that so different from what I tell my English students, when they grope for the answer, eyes focused upwards as if trying to retrieve input from the air, cheeks burning with self consciousness. Relax. Let go of the confining grammar rules (which I’ve spent the last month grilling into you) and communicate. Stop translating in your head. Feel the language (while I and the rest of the class stare at you expectantly). Maybe I’m just as guilty as my slick dance instructors, trying to reduce what for me comes naturally to a simple set of instructions.
Contrary to popular stereotypes, Latin Americans are not born with rhythm (with the possible exception of the Sra. Guillermina). In addition to foreigners, Oaxaca’s dance schools are full of Mexicans, looking for their inner Don Juan or just tired of embarrassing themselves at weddings and quienceañeras. I’m not sure to which of these categories Lalo belonged when he took classes. One thing is sure, when he thrusts his left foot forward to lead, the gesture is not his own. It’s too grandiose, too rehearsed. I can imagine his instructor, (who in my mind looks just like Antonio Banderas) wringing his hands. “NO Lalo.! No, No, No. It’s like this…” Antonio Banderas pulls Lalo to him and leads him forcefully onto the floor. “You are the MAN Lalo! You must lead with authority!”
Maybe it’s this mental image that lets me relax and make it through a series of turns without loosing my footwork. It also doesn’t hurt my confidence that there is a large, loud group of gringos in the club whose attempts at salsa dancing are even more laughable than my own. Some even look at Lalo and I for what to do. I know this is a huge mistake on their part, but I’m flattered anyway. I stop thinking about my feet and enjoy myself.
I remember how I learned Spanish. It was not in the classroom, where I memorized grammar rules but was never take the leap of faith necessary to convert them into actual communicative speech. I was too shy to speak in English in front of 25 virtual strangers, much less Spanish.
No, I learned Spanish in the garden of the Cultural Institute of Oaxaca, sitting on a stone bench beside Lupita, my conversation partner. At first I didn’t understand half of what she said, but her impish grin and animated hand gestures filled in the gaps. In my eagerness to know her better, I forgot to be anxious about my grammar. There was no more preterit and co-preterit, indicative and subjunctive, just conversations about likes, dislikes, relationships, and pets. I made mistakes. Lots of them. Not only did no lightning bolt of judgment descend upon me, but I usually got my message across, errors and all.
The band takes a break and they put on a disco CD. No sooner do the triumphant opening chords of “I will survive!” sound from the stereo and the gringos are back in their element. They thrust their beer bottles high and pantomime the lyrics, while the Mexicans look on amused. When they play the Village People I actually have to coach Lalo on the moves for “YMC.” Then “Billie Jean” comes on and my countrywomen, (who have imbibed far more alcohol than my writer-English teacher income permits) gyrate rhythmically, wriggling their booties almost to the floor. Lalo’s eyes bulge. This unbridled sexuality is not like the combative courtship of Mexican salsa, where the seduction lies in its suggestiveness. No one can say these gringas are not feeling the music. It’s just different music.
Some things I never had to work at: writing, drawing, and most any academic subject not requiring mathamatics. But my learning my second language was a process, is a process, by turns torturous and exhilarating. It required me to step out my shyness, talk to new people, confront new cultural norms, stop being a perfectionist, humiliate myself publicly, make lots and lots of mistakes. Now that I’m fairly fluent in Spanish I look back and feel a greater sense of accomplishment than I have about anything else, even writing and other talents that came to me naturally.
I tell my students that if I could learn Spanish (and I pass around some of my early Spanish assignments for them to laugh at) they can learn English. I mean it, but mostly they look at me like I’m reciting another Academic platitude like “relax, live the language, feel the music…”
If I could only find the right music.
