Folk Dancing

A piece I wrote a while ago. Based on real experience (ethnography).




I feel bizarre being at Robarts on a gloomy Friday evening despite the fact that there are more poor souls here tonight than I expected. I need to confirm the location of the multicultural folk dance workshop I’ll be attending later on tonight. A few days ago, I was exceptionally excited to go to this event but today, after doing a two hour presentation standing up and constantly talking, I am not exactly sure if I have the energy to dance. In a constant debate with myself whether or not I should go, I remember the deadline for the assignment is next week. Maybe I no longer have the choice to back out. As I sneak deep inside myself, I wonder if my reason for not wholly wanting to go is legitimate. I am scared to break out of my shell and participate in something I’ve never done before. Not only is that, but the thought of doing it with a complete crowd of strangers is overwhelming. This may come out as a surprise but I have never danced before! Except for a horrible version of Bhangra (folk dance from Punjab) or some random dancing I do at weddings. I snap out of my thoughts as my sight unconsciously strikes the wall clock situated above the information desk.

At about 7:30 pm, I walk out of Robarts. The wind, blowing outrageously, slaps every part of my existence as I walk north on St.George Street. I make a left turn from Bloor Street and can’t help but notice the giant, orange dragon staring at me from the glass window of the Bata Shoe Museum. While walking on Spadina, a huge sign on a building reading “Jewish Community Center” comes to my attention. Immediately, something in my heart questions “What if the dance class is here?” I feel tormented at the thought of walking into a Jewish community with my hijab (headscarf) on as it shouts my Muslim identity. I fear not being accepted due to all the political tension between the two groups. Hoping they are nice people, I enter into the glass building through a fancy, heavy door and feel extremely lost in the midst of a huge crowd of people lined up to enter into one of the theatre halls. Upon inquiring at the information desk about the location of Gym 122, I realize I am in the wrong building. Silly me! How could I possibly walk into a building without even looking at the building number? As I walk out, a sense of relief upon seeing the Faculty of Education building across Spadina Street soothes me. For some reason, having a gym inside a huge, castle-looking, ancient, brick building sounds as paradoxical as having a computer lab at Hart House. A massive show case of trophies greets me after I make my way through a giant door into the main lobby. I hear melodious but dim music as if it was coming from somewhere far away. Although it’s difficult to define, it arouses a feeling that I am listening to something vaguely familiar. It constructs an image of a Scotsman wearing a kilt with an ivory bag pipe. The music gets louder and louder as I get closer and closer to the gym located at the end of the lobby. A lady wearing a dress consisting of a laced petticoat, a blouse and a headscarf comes over and excitedly introduces herself as Tery, the folk dance instructor. While I explain to her the reason of my planned arrival, I quickly glance at the empty gym and realize that I am the first one here. She kindly tells me to have a seat on one of the wooden benches aligned along the walls of the gym and wait until everyone else arrives. The diamond patterned brickwork, basketball hoops, blue mats, and multi-coloured lines on the floor describe this typical gymnasium triggering forgotten, awful memories of my grade 9 physical education class.

I don’t feel uncomfortable just yet because nobody is here. Eight elderly people, five women and three men, enter into the gym after about twenty minutes with apologetic looks on their faces. They seem to be from a variety of ethnicities including Chinese, South Indian, Filipino, and a few others. Tery welcomes them all, one by one, with a handshake and a friendly smile. Just when I was thinking to introduce myself, Tery shouts out “Hello Ladies and Gentlemen” to grab everyone’s attention. My heart skips a beat as Tery continues breathlessly “We have a special guest here who is going to join us tonight.” I wave my hand with a smile on my face to avoid the weirdness that comes along with being the center of attention. Within 2 seconds, everyone joined hands and formed a circle around Tery. I planned to watch a few performances before I actually joined, but here I am, enclosing the circle, entirely clueless and confused. Yet somehow, I can manage to keep a smile on my face. Not that I am deliberately trying to smile, but the whole situation is weird enough to induce giggles. I sense butterflies in my stomach similar to the ones you feel prior to writing an exam or before a roller coaster free fall. Tery announces that we’ll be learning two new folk dances tonight and after that the group will practice the ones learned earlier in the year. She begins by teaching the first step of a Greek folk dance called Gazarkana. She takes three small steps forward counting out loud “1, 2, 3” and on the 4th count, taps the ground gently with her left feet. We all repeat the step after her while holding hands. She then teaches the entire dance, consisting of four steps, one step at a time and we all follow her. I actually find it relatively easy as compared to what I expected. After learning all four steps, we now perform the entire dance all together with the music. Things can get pretty messy if you take one wrong step or lose concentration. After some initial hesitance and mistakes, it becomes something instinctive and natural. I continue to follow the others and truly, I am enjoying every moment of it.

When I am in motion, my heart feels this immense joy. I feel alive! The dance starts off slowly and then gradually gets faster and faster following the beat of the music. You get so immersed in it that while the dance lasts, you are entirely diconnected not only from the outside world but also from your own self. You have no thoughts, no feelings, no conscious, and no stress as if you are on anesthetics. It feels like the music will never end and we’ll continue like this forever. The music gets slower once again and so we also get slower until we gradually come to a stop. My sweaty hand slips off from the person’s beside me. I try to catch my breath and gulp down the few drops of saliva in my mouth down my dry throat. I wipe the sweat off my forehead and sit on the bench to drink some water to cool off. Before I could take a moment to calm down, an old lady walks toward me, grab my arm and vivaciusly ask me to join the group in the next dance. I soon find myself standing in a circle again. The next dance is a Hungarian folk dance called the Burbur and the person teaching it is a Hungarian man named Michael. We are in a circle but instead of holding hands with our neighbours, we place our arms on their shoulders. On step 1, we swing our right leg into the air and back down. Right after, we swing our left leg and shout “hey ho!”. We hop twice and then the entire circle gradually move closer into the center and slowly move back out while shouting “Keep it up and dance all day, Till the devil take you away”. Just like the first dance, these few steps are repeated over and over till the sound track ends. I feel uncomfortable since this dance involves getting too close to the other members and being self-conscious is destroying my concentration. I find it relatively easy to perform the dance one step at a time but doing it all together as one piece, especially with the music, can result in forgetting the steps. Now, it’s time for the group to practice the folk dances they learned earlier on in the year. I sit on the bench and watch the rest bounce, swing, slide, tap and weave in response to the captivating rhythmic beats. After making a few more oberservations, I place my diary in my bag and walk toward Tery to offer gratitude.