(This piece appeared in the Youngblood section, Opinion Page of the Philippine Daily Inquirer last June 17, 2006. No greater joy is there for a writer than to see his own work get published, albeit in one of the nation’s biggest newspapers.)
It is a fact well-settled that some guys just can’t dance.
Unfortunately, I belong to this group of poor old chaps who could only sit by a corner, helplessly staring at the more gifted ones prancing away with prize partners in tow, wishing all the while that the phenomenon of switching shoes (and abilities) were possible. You’d probably think it way too ambitious for someone who hasn’t even tried and tested the grooves yet, but trust me when I say that I’ve tried just about as much and as hard as anybody else. The last time I publicly showed off my dancing talents onstage was during my junior year, and it ended up with one student approaching me afterwards to say in hushed, stiff tones that I resembled a bewildered robot skidding off course. Hands down, it was a bad enough experience; that’s when I finally decided it’s about time I give my clumsy old awkward self a well-deserved break from causing more humiliating fiascos, at least for the meantime.
However lousy I could get with steps and strides, I wasn’t exactly born having two left feet. You see, the art of dancing somehow goes well and good in the family: My parents could throw in a step or two, my siblings could also carry on with the beat, and as for one of my aunts – well, dancing IS her life. My precocious childhood even had its own share of the jiggling and the wiggling, carefully preserved in indelible photo frames and providing evidence to the whole story lest my current inflexible rod-of-a-body suggested otherwise. There I was at the forefront during kindergarten days, grinning and eagerly leading the class in mixed song-and-dance numbers. I suppose I can still do the singing part just as fine; but the dancing aspect seemed to have vanished altogether. What had happened in between?
Perhaps it would have something to do with how I prioritized things as I moved on to grade school. At that time, stakes were high for skills in speaking, singing, the visual arts and academics. Being the insufferable perfectionist that I was (and sometimes still am), I wasted no time in vigorously pursuing each of these disciplines, even attempting to excel in all of them. Dancing would be sometimes present but on fairly rare occasions, and since I didn’t see it as much of a necessity, it was shoved further and further out of the checklist as the years rolled by.
With the onset of high school, focus was thrust again on studies and on joining school organizations; and this meant even less of cha-chas and cartwheels. Only after some time did I realize that I was no longer the one performing – instead was reduced to the lowly spectator in the audience whenever shake-your-thing numbers entered the scene. I was headed for a typical non-dancing future.
Fast forward to college. Just when I thought nothing out of the blue was going to take place, along came first semester of second year that landed me in a social dancing PE class. Distraught and dreading the prospect of possibly flunking my first course (embarrassingly a presumed no-sweat one at that), you can readily bet that I was one of those who initially objected to the sheer idea of strutting your stuff for a grade – in vain. My only recourse left was to convince myself that it would be fun, that things wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Optimists often credit half of the learning process to a positive attitude. In much the same way, sufficient warm-up provides athletes with maximum power for a stellar performance. Though I am utterly sure I never did dance exquisitely enough to be considered “stellar”, what really fueled me and kept me striving to master the cha-cha, gain control over the slippery steps of the boogie and sway along with the swing was simply enjoying myself in what I am doing – part of internalizing the dance and harmonizing it with my emotions, or so our instructor said.
It didn’t take me long to see what she meant. Unexpected epiphanies helped me rediscover long lost delight on the dance floor. The more I progressed, the more I understood the parallelism of life and dance. It occurred to me that life itself constitutes some form of dance: You live it according to your own rhythm and require proper breathing, grace, flexibility, balance and focus in order to succeed. Moreover, you get a plus factor in communicating with your partner sans the burden of words. It is a pleasant feeling to know you are able to connect with someone else.
The funny thing right now is that months after reluctantly doing a bit of center stage stuff, I have been entertaining thoughts of finally qualifying to hit the ballroom, armed as I am with my newfound skill. However I believe the legacy of dancing goes more than just that. It’s about revisiting a world I had far left behind; of rekindling a thrill deep within, of looking at life face-to-face through a miniature model. Although I can claim to be (ahem) relatively adept at going through the basic routine, I confess I still can’t execute the more complex moves expertly and elegantly, much less effortlessly. Heck, I’m bound to end up worse than a robot; and at the moment can only content myself to sighing and having this envious admiration for the lucky guys who can do so.
Such green-eyed respect will sometimes drive a person to reach for the stars no matter what. Recently while channel-surfing, the idiot box showed a pair of Latino terpsichorean virtuosos giving it their all onscreen. It was an exhilarating sight, no doubt, and it made me realize that there’s certainly much to go before I catch up with the likes of these fabulous superstars. But I guess after all this ruckus of not knowing how to dance and eventually taking classes in it, what really matters is not how well you shake your bootie, but how well you make the most of whatever you can do with your bootie. What little dancing genes I have left, I’ll do away with splendidly. Which means I’ll be awaiting life’s greatest dance yet.
Unfortunately, I belong to this group of poor old chaps who could only sit by a corner, helplessly staring at the more gifted ones prancing away with prize partners in tow, wishing all the while that the phenomenon of switching shoes (and abilities) were possible. You’d probably think it way too ambitious for someone who hasn’t even tried and tested the grooves yet, but trust me when I say that I’ve tried just about as much and as hard as anybody else. The last time I publicly showed off my dancing talents onstage was during my junior year, and it ended up with one student approaching me afterwards to say in hushed, stiff tones that I resembled a bewildered robot skidding off course. Hands down, it was a bad enough experience; that’s when I finally decided it’s about time I give my clumsy old awkward self a well-deserved break from causing more humiliating fiascos, at least for the meantime.
However lousy I could get with steps and strides, I wasn’t exactly born having two left feet. You see, the art of dancing somehow goes well and good in the family: My parents could throw in a step or two, my siblings could also carry on with the beat, and as for one of my aunts – well, dancing IS her life. My precocious childhood even had its own share of the jiggling and the wiggling, carefully preserved in indelible photo frames and providing evidence to the whole story lest my current inflexible rod-of-a-body suggested otherwise. There I was at the forefront during kindergarten days, grinning and eagerly leading the class in mixed song-and-dance numbers. I suppose I can still do the singing part just as fine; but the dancing aspect seemed to have vanished altogether. What had happened in between?
Perhaps it would have something to do with how I prioritized things as I moved on to grade school. At that time, stakes were high for skills in speaking, singing, the visual arts and academics. Being the insufferable perfectionist that I was (and sometimes still am), I wasted no time in vigorously pursuing each of these disciplines, even attempting to excel in all of them. Dancing would be sometimes present but on fairly rare occasions, and since I didn’t see it as much of a necessity, it was shoved further and further out of the checklist as the years rolled by.
With the onset of high school, focus was thrust again on studies and on joining school organizations; and this meant even less of cha-chas and cartwheels. Only after some time did I realize that I was no longer the one performing – instead was reduced to the lowly spectator in the audience whenever shake-your-thing numbers entered the scene. I was headed for a typical non-dancing future.
Fast forward to college. Just when I thought nothing out of the blue was going to take place, along came first semester of second year that landed me in a social dancing PE class. Distraught and dreading the prospect of possibly flunking my first course (embarrassingly a presumed no-sweat one at that), you can readily bet that I was one of those who initially objected to the sheer idea of strutting your stuff for a grade – in vain. My only recourse left was to convince myself that it would be fun, that things wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Optimists often credit half of the learning process to a positive attitude. In much the same way, sufficient warm-up provides athletes with maximum power for a stellar performance. Though I am utterly sure I never did dance exquisitely enough to be considered “stellar”, what really fueled me and kept me striving to master the cha-cha, gain control over the slippery steps of the boogie and sway along with the swing was simply enjoying myself in what I am doing – part of internalizing the dance and harmonizing it with my emotions, or so our instructor said.
It didn’t take me long to see what she meant. Unexpected epiphanies helped me rediscover long lost delight on the dance floor. The more I progressed, the more I understood the parallelism of life and dance. It occurred to me that life itself constitutes some form of dance: You live it according to your own rhythm and require proper breathing, grace, flexibility, balance and focus in order to succeed. Moreover, you get a plus factor in communicating with your partner sans the burden of words. It is a pleasant feeling to know you are able to connect with someone else.
The funny thing right now is that months after reluctantly doing a bit of center stage stuff, I have been entertaining thoughts of finally qualifying to hit the ballroom, armed as I am with my newfound skill. However I believe the legacy of dancing goes more than just that. It’s about revisiting a world I had far left behind; of rekindling a thrill deep within, of looking at life face-to-face through a miniature model. Although I can claim to be (ahem) relatively adept at going through the basic routine, I confess I still can’t execute the more complex moves expertly and elegantly, much less effortlessly. Heck, I’m bound to end up worse than a robot; and at the moment can only content myself to sighing and having this envious admiration for the lucky guys who can do so.
Such green-eyed respect will sometimes drive a person to reach for the stars no matter what. Recently while channel-surfing, the idiot box showed a pair of Latino terpsichorean virtuosos giving it their all onscreen. It was an exhilarating sight, no doubt, and it made me realize that there’s certainly much to go before I catch up with the likes of these fabulous superstars. But I guess after all this ruckus of not knowing how to dance and eventually taking classes in it, what really matters is not how well you shake your bootie, but how well you make the most of whatever you can do with your bootie. What little dancing genes I have left, I’ll do away with splendidly. Which means I’ll be awaiting life’s greatest dance yet.
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