School Dances

School dances were my first experience of formal courting of the opposite sex. There were other, different, experiences, prior, but they were private, far less public affairs. Some pleasant, quick spontaneous kisses on the cheek and then maybe on the lips, and such; and some were not, one I would consider a bit of a violation to my person, a bit of show and tell I was by no means ready for, at the time. When I begged off, was held down and forced to participate. That’s right, boys can be violated, too.

My first dance was my Grade 8 graduation. I had no idea what to expect. I realized there would be dancing. But how did one go about it? There were so many doubts. So many unknowns. I was asking myself the same questions, beforehand, that I suspect most of the other boys, and girls, were. Was I popular enough, handsome enough, attractive enough that girls would want to dance with me, were foremost in my mind. My sister tried to prepare me for the ordeal. She taught me to dance, and we practiced in our basement to those albums we had. She tried to reassure me, too, told me to not be afraid, that the girls were just and nervous as I was, and asked, “why wouldn’t they want to dance with you?” I’d have none of her reassurance. It wasn’t like I had a girlfriend. For those few who did, they knew there was someone willing to dance with them. Not so the lion’s share of us.

It was held in the afternoon, in the gym, and was no longer than an hour and a half. All the lights were left on, so it was painfully bright, not quite the ambiance I was hoping for. I recall one girl, as afraid and as lacking in confidence and self-worth as, I imagine, I felt. She was a big girl. Not as attractive as most. She was not popular, had no clique to protect her from her own fears and doubts. I saw her crying, a phalanx of girls around her, most of whom who usually wouldn’t give her the time of day, failing at first to set her as ease. I heard her say, “Nobody wants me here,” through her tears, her words broken by sobs. My heart broke for her. She was expressing those same thoughts I, myself, was tormenting myself with.

I did ask a girl to dance, eventually. With only an hour and a half to do so, I couldn’t wait too long, or it would be too late and I’d have to admit failure to my sister, who would surely ask how I fared, a fate I wished to avoid. I watched the first boys, though, to see how it was done. New territory to discover, and all that. I waited for cover, until there were quite a few kids already dancing. That way if the girl refused, the whole school wouldn’t be witness to my failure. And the first girl I asked did. It was like a shot to the heart. I retreated back to the boys’ wall, defeated. But I did venture out after a couple more songs, as there was no way I was going to be the last boy left standing all by his self against that lonely wall. There was no way I was going to be left to live down that humiliation! Luckily, the next girl I asked accepted. Was she just being polite? Did she too just need to get out onto the dance floor to get the ordeal over with? I don’t know, but that first hurdle had been faced and negotiated.

Later, in high school, dances were held monthly. I can’t say they were ever routine, that I ever faced them with practiced confidence, because I never did. I’d arrive and hook up with my friends, we’d always begin by gathering along the wall opposite the girls, and then after a few songs, we’d watch the first few brave souls as they would venture across the floor and ask the first girls to dance. That was always routine. After years of this, I discovered that as one of the older boys it was up to me to be one of those first, but I never did cross that floor alone, as far as I can remember. When I did, I did so with a few others, who were likely as nervous as I was. Safety in numbers, and all that. It was always a harrowing experience, at best, requiring all my courage to be gathered up and wrapped around me. Weak knees carried me across that distance, my heart in my throat. What if she said no? It happened, sometimes. Then the question arose: did I then ask another right away, like maybe the girl seated next to her who had just refused me? She’d likely be that first decliner’s friend, and would definitely refuse me, too. Should I ask another, three or four down the line? Would she say no, as well, insulted that she was considered second choice? Or would I skulk back to the wall that I’d just left, defeated and humiliated before my peers, and the amusement or horror of those younger boys gathering their courage, and watching, as I once had? And if I did, how long until I’d have to venture out again? One had to. Face, required that one had to.

Most times, the girl who I really wanted to dance with was not the first I asked. That required even more courage, afraid she would say no and ruin my whole evening. When she did, she would be the one I would ask most often, then. I wonder now if the girls ever knew that, knew what we were about, knew our minds, and could read us like open books.

But once those first songs were over, the floor was invariably filled, and the ordeal was easier. We were all having fun, inhibitions were dropped, Rock Lobster had lathered us with sweat, and we might venture a little petting before the teachers stepped in to break us up, as they couldn’t actually hose us down.