Dancey dancing

There is a new obsession at our house, and it has nothing to do with Easter. Two weeks ago I attended a very cool, very laid-back tap dance class downtown with my friend Laura. I’ve long known one of her dreams in life is to tap dance (and she has long known that I’m usually up for anything), so I was happy to accompany her as she took a step closer to realizing her dream of being Shirley Temple or Ginger Rogers or whatever dancer is responsible for her yearning. Following others people’s dreams or desires can be a real treat because they can take you where you didn’t ever think to go: a tap dancing class, a part of the world about which you weren’t ever curious before, through a book or movie that hadn’t interested you. With little invested, you can experience just about anything without the fear of it falling short of expectations or being harder than you imagined. I went to tap class thinking, sure, this could be fun and left pretty darn pleased with myself, ready to sign up for a little while (though not yet ready to take over Laura’s passionate dream).

As it happened, Singin’ in the Rain was on Turner Classic Movies that night, so I recorded it and watched at it between rounds of domesticity after Clementine went to bed. The next day after work/pre-dinner, when Clementine often clamors for some form of TV or movie and we resist because we just aren’t going to raise a TV-starved kid, I thought of putting the movie on and was delighted with how excited she was to watch it. She chanted “Dancey dancing,” or something along those lines as she watched, trying to imitate some of the movements but not wanting to put too much effort into it when watching was taking so much of her energy. When a dance number would die down, she’d ask for more, more, and I’d fast forward to the next one, anxious to hear her proclamation of “Dancey dancing” and to watch her wiggly little hips and crazy arm gestures.

For the last week we’ve been eking dance numbers out of anything we have in the house (Wizard of Oz and exercise tapes so far) and recording anything on TCM that might have even one such number. On Easter, after the bunny, after our weekly brunch at Club Bart, after a few errands, we found ourselves perched on the doorstep of Thomas Video waiting for them to open so we could rent more. The pickings were slim since our VCR is broken, but we made away with Brigadoon, An American in Paris, Take Me Out to the Ballgame and The Busby Berkeley Collection, which is the real gem. Not troubled with the plots of the actual movies themselves, the DVD is just the old black-and-white dance numbers from the 30s, many of which darling C has made nicknames for so we can be sure exactly what she means when she says “Meow dancey.”

For my part, I’m encouraging this, and not just because I have some tap shoes on the way. There are many things I’m passionate about in life (poetry/writing, art and travel to name only a few), and there are many things about which I have been passionate at some time. It’s the latter in which I’m totally willing to indulge Clementine. I have been a beekeeper, a bookmaker, a chef, a welder, a translator, a farmer, a vulcanologist, a jewelry maker, a clothing designer and, now, a tap dancer, among many other things. I haven’t done any of them extremely well or for very long, but I gave each one my interest and my best shot until I felt I learned what I wanted. I wish that for her as well, to look at something—anything—and be interested, to immerse herself in just about anything in order to figure out the depth of her interest/passion. OK, maybe I’m over thinking her current obsession with all things dancing. It could just be that she wants the damn TV on has learned this is how we will allow it. We’ll see. All I know for sure is that dancey dancing sure beats the hell out of Elmo. At least until she demands ballet lessons.