SALSA. TAKE 2
by Char Easter
SEATTLE WA – I was behind enemy lines in borrowed high heels. But having reached the threshold of the Century Ballroom dance floor on salsa night, there was no going back. Under the ornate chandeliers from a bygone era, a teaming mass of spins and hips and fancy footwork filled the 
room beyond a pheromone level capacity. It was like getting off the ski chair at the top of a cliff and wondering how to proceed.
Lo and behold, I was taken to the dance floor straight away then drew a complete blank when my partner’s hips started making undulating figure eights that imparted way too much information. After about one minute, I fled to the stairwell and called my new long distance love until my cell phone batteries ran out. Since parting from the herd was not an option, I decided to go back and risk… well whatever happens to herds. In this case it’d be cultural slaughter.Dave, the guy at our table, asks me to dance. I am trying to be invisible. I say no, I really don’t know how. The subtext is that it will be embarrassing for both of us. Dave is undaunted. I relented. Once out on the floor, I was impressed how he managed to keep his dignity intact despite his obvious handicap – me. I had decided to not complicate matters by counting steps, which worked out because this guy was good enough to rise above of my technical limitations. It was fun! We whirled and he did fancy hand gestures around my face – some advance salsa moves no doubt. We even did the signature Latino backbend finale – the exclamation mark on my best salsa dance ever.
After that little miracle, the evening went downhill and I was back to trying to reconcile the gap between my stiff four steps back and three forward that represent the unadorned pillars of the finished product — that seemingly effortless sassy sexy thing called salsa. This isn’t the first time I’ve tried. I’ve been to a few classes. My trip to Cuba, however, was four steps back because there I realized, you don’t mess with salsa dancing. This isn’t freeform, independent or exploratory. There is no room for spin-off versions. There is hardcore tradition and anything else is an insult to the entire culture.
The Cubans may not have much, but there are certain things Castro cannot take away — dance, music and sex. At a house party jam in Havana, I was merrily playing the clave when a native who, in an authoritarian tone, took the clave away from me and demonstrated how to play it “correctly.” He didn’t give it back, which translated as him trying to save me from single handedly eroding the very fabric of their highly refined cultural identity. The same strict adherence to the cultural brand applies to dancing. The bottom line: if you don’t know how to salsa, you’re probably not going to get asked to dance. And since it requires a partner – a concept I’m trying to embrace – you’re out.
I know my roots. Just give me something grinding, grounded and brooding. I’m from Seattle. The tempestuous dark cloud covering is ideally expressed with heavy guitar distortion, which prompts one to plant their feet and head bang with psychedelic verve. How can I relate to these bubbly, sunny rhythms? It’s so upbeat. They say the clave is key, but where in my musical upbringing did the clave play a role – Underworld, The Cure, Radio Head? It’s not on my radar. And maybe that’s where the disconnect lies.
Each partner tells me, “You just need to know the salsa basics: count 4 back and 3 forward.” Right there, I lose interest. I imagine being in the army. How does marching back and forth equate to undulating fluid turns and body-sensual expressions.
As I dutifully count one through seven on the dance floor, my partner tells me we’re going to do a turn. Okay. Great. Nothing could be more poorly executed than what I’m doing, so let’s give it whirl I think. “But let’s not count,” I say. “I’ll just do it.” He says something about following him, which is appropriate in this gender-based activity, but not helpful. I remember dancing with my dad one time, how he tried to teach me the concept that the man is the lead. As the scene goes, I was out with my mom and dad for their anniversary. The cover band began to play “Wild Thing” and my mom leapt up from her seat in a manner the title suggests. “Let’s dance,” she says, then heads like a freight train bound for the dance floor – partner or no partner. We all followed. Then the mood turned to a slow song and I danced with my dad. He led and I tried to follow, but there was some ingrained resistance at play. Maybe it’s that couple dancing is from another era but it was then I realized I had “an issue.”
Back on the dance floor at hand, I make an effort to look my partner in the eye although my hair is mercifully covering my eyes and await the impending turn. I am feeling a low level of anxiety, but I remind myself this is not a trapeze stunt. There’s really no imminent danger if I botch the handoff. The turn comes and goes. Whatever. We’re back to plodding back and forward, one through seven. I’m dancing with Kevin and he seems to be in the learning trenches as well, just a few dance lessons ahead of me. He takes a very pragmatic approach – like a mechanical engineer’s specifications document to salsa. Okay. This is good, I think. After a few no frills, utilitarian dances like this, I’ll have the basics etched into my being. Maybe then I can move on, out of boot camp and on to hi heel camp. The way I dance now, I could be wearing combat boots.
A few dances go by and I indicate I’m going to wait out the next dance. He seems very forlorn and eventually finds me again back at my table. Dave has left and my roommate Liz is out on the floor, an upstanding citizen of salsa, one with all its fluid, rhythmic glory. I notice Kevin is approaching and strategically start changing my shoes in an overt gesture that I’m heading out. He has a comb-over hair do.
Maybe that is why I agree to dance with him again, a decision based out of pity. He leads me to the floor. After one round and I insist I must go home. We stand there on the floor, him holding my hand imploringly. What is this scene? I don’t even know him, yet I must have given the wrong impression, something along the lines that I have a strong physical attraction to him and there’s a future for us. I can see that if I’m going to continue on the dance circuit, I’ll need to learn some boundaries. He relinquishes the moment in a snap decision to kiss my hand. It was a nice touch. On my way out two more men make gestures of interest. How did my flat line dance style go unnoticed? Anyway, I’m flattered. I’ve been single and practically invisible for a year, so I wonder – is this what the Salsa is all about?
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