Yer Dancin’?

photo by Sara Teresa
photo by Sara Teresa

Yer Dancin’? Well, no. There’s a good reason.

At Middle School I had a teacher who was genuinely mad. She was quite possibly bad too, and certainly dangerous if she got to know there was any dissent in her class.

She made us pray at our desks every morning after register. She thought official assembly lacked fervour so prepared us for the trials and temptations of the day with her own particular ritual. She’d stalk the classroom checking that heads were bowed. eyes fastened shut, and hands locked together in knuckle-white clasp. If she suspected insufficient awe and reverence in the class she would douse us with a shot of holy water (she made regular pilgrimages to the “Holy Land” and always returned with fresh supplies that she decanted into pocket sized plastic bottles in case of religious emergencies – have I mentioned she may have been batty?) She made us belt out the Twenty Third Psalm at incredible volume – God being in her mind either at a great distance or else profoundly hard of hearing – else we were drenched with the liquid of the Lord. She always made it plain that the Lord preferred a thick leather strap, and only the foolish, weak, wrong-headed school policy prevented her chastising us in the proper Christian manner. She was concerned for the long-term health of our souls.

She was also keen on team sports and physical fitness. I’m sure she made us do much more PE than was strictly required by the curriculum. She would run around the football pitch, holy water in one hand, whistle in the other, yelling encouragement and threats. She thought sixty minutes of chasing a ball was character building.

But the worst thing about Mrs Dunnick, the thing I can never forgive her for – the thing that ruined my early adolescence, curdled my spirit, warped my soul and twisted my mental framework forever – was that she forced me to dance.

Every Thursday afternoon, in the final two periods of the school day, she would march us into the dusty hall, divide us into a row of boys and a row of girls, then spend an agonizing five minutes pairing us off. Her choice of dance partner was designed for maximum mortification – short tubby lad with a lanky stick of a girl, cleverest girl with class dope, sporty kid with the swottiest.

When it came to my turn I would step forward and try not to catch her eye. I’m sure I once caught a demonic glint as she fixed me in her gaze for what felt like an eternity. She’d always pinch her lower lip as if deep in thought, and slowly survey the row of remaining girls.

“Ah, Radzinsky, yes … you boy, go with Radzinsky.”

Helen Radzinsky was Polish, or Russian (I never dared ask) which to me was infinitely glamorous – how she came to be at a comprehensive in a South Leeds council estate was incomprehensible. She was the oldest girl in class, tall, poised, dressed like she’d stepped out of a fashion shoot, and sophisticated way beyond her years. I was one of the youngest, wore NHS specs and trousers that didn’t quite reach my ankles (I’d been going through a bit of a growth spurt and my wardrobe hadn’t quite caught up) and had never been further than “the top of the avvy”.

Mrs Dunnick would arrange the pairs in an inexplicable formation around the hall then drop a 33 record onto an old turntable. When the music crackled into life she would clap along violently and shriek instructions – leg two-three, sway two-three, twirl around two-three – things that meant absolutely nothing to any kid in the class. Any kid except Helen Radzinsky that is.

While my classmates were stumbling and tripping and crashing randomly about the place, Helen would grab me firmly by the shoulder and glide me gracefully over the parquet, stopping occasionally to place my hands in the correct position.

“Here” she’d say, “and, here!” patiently and slowly, as if she was talking to an idiot.

Mrs Dunnick would halt the mayhem around us, ask everyone to stand against the wall to give us space, and tell all my sniggering, elbowing classmates to watch and learn.

And Helen would be off, yanking me around the floor like a dummy, pulling, pushing, correcting me, Mrs Dunnick beaming and clapping like a lunatic.

The humiliation was total.

The humiliation was inescapable.

The praying I could cope with. Mrs Dunnick could not control what was in my head, and I was safe as long as I bellowed the Lord’s Prayer loud enough – the occasional shower of Holy H2O had negligible effect on my spiritual beliefs. And the sport didn’t really have much impact – I was inept, unenthusiastic, and not a good team player, so spent most of my time on the sports field gazing at clouds and thinking about nothing in particular. The ball rarely came near me, and I was never much of a chaser, so sport and I worked out a mutually beneficial arrangement. But dance! … Dance was a fascist, a slave-driver and a torturer all rolled into one. There was nowhere to hide from Dance. And Mrs Dunnick was Dance’s incarnation and chief instrument on Earth.

I vowed to the Gods and all that was pure and eternal and unmoving, that once I had escaped the evil grip of Mrs Dunnick (and graduated to an all boys High School where I was reliably informed dancing was not tolerated) I would never be forced to dance again. In fact, I would never dance again.

I’ve never seen any reason to change my mind. It is the one fixed principle I live by. No dancing. Ever. Don’t even ask, the answer is always a No. Now go away and jiggle in someone else’s vicinity.

Surprisingly, given my antipathy to all things terpsichorean, I found myself at a dance networking event the other day. I think I was invited to give the outsiders point of view. There’s probably nobody further outside dance than me. Dance is at the opposite pole.

So, first impressions of Salon?

Fair enough, not all dancers are demons in sensible footwear. Some are, of course, by they aren’t the ones that go to networking events where normal, non-dancers are welcome.

And not all dancers like all dance. I met a few people there who were refreshingly critical of the dance scene – but I don’t know anything about it so couldn’t comment.

And the event was amiable, didn’t take itself too seriously, and was compered brilliantly by Hilary Duvet (pic above).

The feedback was good too – I’ll add that in the comments later.

There was one moment I wished I’d not have had to experience, however, the inevitable Dance Totalitarian – “isn’t dance wonderful, life-affirming, joyous, and he cure to all the worlds ills … why don’t we all get on our feet right now and feel how good dancing is!” Next person who tries to drag me to me feet to experience the ecstasy of dancing I shall lock in a cork-tiled room, swallow the key, and not move until they have experienced the true joy of penning a perfectly turned paragraph … Be warned. I mean it.

I don’t dance. It’s a grudge thing.

Happy for anyone else to, as long as they don’t expect me to jig along. And if dancing is your thing then I’d recommend you get along to the next Salon event.

8 comments

  1. Ah yes you reminded me of the annual ritual at my school a week before the Christmas disco, where we would have to learn a barn dance, the Lolita (even at a young age this seemed a bit dodgy) and (how we guffawed) the Gay Gordons.
    I was also youngest in the class, wearing NHS specs and, in my case, a skirt that went out of fashion during the war. But dancing was a chance to shine and make the lads who’d made fun of me for being a nerd look like the missing link.
    Funny that.

  2. Thanks, Phil. You have just awakened better forgotten memories of the Dashing White Sargeant on those Wednesday afternoons when even the sadistic psychos who taught sport at my state-grammar-trying-and-failing-to-be-a-minor-public-school conceded it was too wet to subject us to the ritualised hand to hand combat substitute that was rugby (or hockey for the girls. Their version allowed weapons). Team sports, bad music and hormones together creating a new hell as a realised I had two left feet as well as a complete lack of sporting prowess. I do like watching dance, mind, with people who know what they’re doing.

      1. I think Richard should join Phil for his tap lessons – i don’t believe that anyone actually has ‘two left feet’ – what do you reckon, up for the challenge with Dance Studio Leeds and the lovely Katie!?! I said i’d blog about it!!

  3. I was one of the people helping to organise this – below are some of the comments people told me either on face book or at the event! ( and also some of my own comments).

    ‘it was nice that it was so chilled – felt more relaxed than the last networking meeting i went to’

    ‘had a good vibe’

    ‘Really useful’

    ‘got some work out of it’

    “it was great”

    “So useful, met someone i was meeting next day, got a half price ticket for a workshop, met someone who was a connection to someone i want to work with- which will really help when i contact them. Loved that there were nibbles, beer and music ( made such a difference). Loved the haircut – drinks vouchers! Think there should be something like that every time- when is the next one? ”

    “What a weird and wonderful event that was! I’ve just been to a regular network event this morning, and I must admit I enjoyed the curlers, compare and haircuts more than I did the stuffy suits; mind you the stuffy suits were slightly more practical business wise.”

    What I liked personally was that it was a good mix of people, it didnt feel stuck up, also Hilary Duvet highlighted the pretentious jargon / ‘twaddle’ we have all ( most of us) been guilty of using at one time or another about dance say. I felt that people didn’t take themselves too seriously, were honest. It was a good start to have people from different areas of dance and beyond dance to other arts sectors ( as far as web developers) – next time, I’d like more of a mix of people ( more musicians, artists, theatre makers, producers) and maybe a more private soap box situation so its less scary for people and i think privacy may give more of a ‘confessional’ honesty. In terms of earlier comment about practical usefulness and bringing people together on an equal playing field – i think lets keep being inventive. LOVED the venue – Dukes studio is ace!

    1. As I wasn’t there I can’t begin to conceive that recent networking event, though well done if broke any moulds. As an activist and “lay dancer” I always look forward to twice yearly experimentally leaving my comfort zone at the long standing http://saltairedayofdance.blogspot.co.uk/2013/07/next-day-of-dance-19th-october-2013.html .Though replenishing numbers seems to be dying a death in recent years; supportive thoughts welcome to Yorkshire CND I’m sure on getting it back steady on its feet. See you all this coming fall (mermaids and all) And of course at Light Night

Comments are closed.