Tango is more than just a dance

My father is handsome and strong. I look up, and he seems so tall even if I step on his feet with my new brown shoes. My right-hand rests on the top of Dad's heavy palm and my left-hand rests on his right hand. He and my mother are the best Tango dancers. Every time, they bring the first-place award home. My father’s feet make sophisticated moves; he calls it “kolena”–creative slow and quick moves that he comes up with while dancing. My father moves forward and makes a sudden elegant shift to the right and, suddenly, putting his weight on the left foot so that I lean toward him. Now, he bends his right knee–this is where the word “kolena” came from–and gently pushes me away, leaning over me that I feel like flying. I do not have to worry–I just stand on my father’s feet. Then my dad dances with my sister. In the end, we all watch our parents' dance. This is a treat. Argentine Tango is our most favorite.

Dancing tango was always the best time I ever spent with my dad. Only after my father died, I learned, to my horror, that I never knew how to dance the tango. I volunteered to assist my Tango teacher, and the first thing I heard was, “Relax, let me lead.” I felt so awkward and angry, “I know how to dance the tango! I grew up dancing The Tango all the time!” The dance instructor smiled and danced with me in silence.

“You need to trust the man who leads you.”

Little did I know that, without a leading partner, Tango is not possible.

At home, I opened my e-mail and found an invitation from Scott. “Lydia, would you like to go take a Flamenco dance class together?"

“Flamenco? Paco De Lucia? When?” That was something I couldn’t resist. Paco De Lucia was my most favorite guitar player since he visited Moscow when I was hardly twenty. Flamenco came out of Gypsy rhythm and moves! The jingling sound of a tambourine stirred up my nostalgia, and the sound of castanets brought memories of my childhood at my father’s work, where he had all kinds of dance groups. I remember how the final dance of each performance always symbolized the unity of all nations in the world, and one of the groups was Cuban in Flamenco dresses. The sound of Gypsy and Flamenco music makes me drop everything – even anger.

Scott looked like Paco De Lucia, the guitarist who impressed me when I was nineteen during one of his concerts in Russia. Interesting that I didn’t notice this similarity before. We enjoyed learning to dance together!
“Let’s Tango now!” Scott and I got into the tango class, and I easily followed all the instructions and impatiently waited when the real dance begins. I sensed the presence of my father right there on the parquet floor. I looked at the instructor’s partner – the woman danced with her eyes closed, she danced effortlessly. That was how I danced with my father. Finally, we were called to the floor. It was horrific! Scott didn’t know how to dance The Tango! “Don’t bend your knees. Move to the right. Why are jerking me?” Everybody danced around us – even those who looked clumsy on the floor during the warm up - but not us.

“Lydia, do not curve your back as you are on the ballroom floor,” – the tango instructor stopped me. This is not a ballroom dance. Tango means teamwork. Relax and listen to your partner.” I was offended: I knew how to dance The Tango! Here I am, working for the two of us!

“Jim, could you please dance with me?” I knew that as soon as I am in the arms of a professional tango dancer – someone like my father - I would show the class. Jim was not as tall as Scott, and it gave me comfort. I didn’t have to stretch my arms up and didn’t arch my back. I regained my confidence and felt much more comfortable until I made the first step. “Lydia, relax. Trust. Let me lead you.”

Easier said than done: I never let a single man lead me before! The instructor took me back to Scott and said – “Lydia, you are an exquisite dancer, but Tango requires a woman to follow her man.” Then he turned his face to me, “You need to listen to what your partner does and where he leads you.” I almost said, “But the partner should know how to lead!” but bit my tongue.

As soon as I was back with Scott, I began instructing him, “Faster, faster. Slow, slower! Do not bend your legs!” Oh, Gosh! I started seeing parallels between our dancing and our marriage.
“If only my dad were alive, I would show you how to dance!” I remembered how my dad and I rehearsed our very first “father-daughter” dance. We knew that dad’s cancer spread, and the cells got out of control in spite of harsh treatment. We decided to go ahead and dance anyway. My father put his best shoes on and got on the floor of the Russian room in my sister’s house. Scott began playing tango on the piano, and my dying dad almost lifted me up, making me feel like a little girl again, standing on his feet and repeating every step he made. I danced like this with my father my whole life and now, after he died, I wished again that he would carry me to the sound of music. The old song of Alla Pugacheva – the Russian Pop star – brought a huge smile on my face, and I didn’t even realize that I just translated it from Russian into English and began to sing.

Tango night gathered a large crowd in an old school building with real hardwood floor. A Polish accordionist Lidia Kaminska touched the buttons, and her elegant style changed my attitude toward accordion in an instant. The sounds of Argentine Tango brought back the image of my parents dancing in our living room, making those complex moves that always astounded the audience. Scott took my hand and bravely pulled me into the center of the room. My father was right there, dancing next to us. Death didn’t take him away. I believe what I once read from quantum physics. Every moment of our life is like a shot, a photograph frozen in space – the image imprinted into eternity on a quantum level. My father would never stop dancing The Tango. He was right here, dancing on the same floor. I was watching my mama and papa dancing as one body/ Though it happened many years ago, they were as real as Scott and I. One dance replaced another, and then I heard how someone said behind my back, “Wow! This couple is professional Tango dancers.” That was funny, I didn’t even do anything. I didn’t even try to dance. I was just thinking of my parents dancing The Tango right next to me.

I went mentally through all that I programmed into myself for the last ten years and got a nice laugh: I survived the Communist brainwash and fell under the religious one. I became the most boring person in the world. I turned myself into a Christian zombie: “No, I do not dance. I do not do yoga – this is not a Christian way.” What happened to me? How did I turn into such a weirdo? The rhythms were always in my bones and in my blood. No, I was not always that boring, as remember now!

Tango helped me to break the chains! Tango is a dance of ordinary people to express their pain, anger, jealousy, and suffering through dance. It requires listening and trust, flexibility and creativity. It requires practice. Tango is healing and meditative. It is like a prayer, but with moves. The more I dance, the freer I feel.