Tango on
We are 20-somethings who have little to lose by making
a fool of ourselves
September 12, 2003
The Iranian
The temperature is around 20 below zero. Outside, on this Friday
afternoon after our last class of the week, the world is covered
in white. But I haven't had ice cream for a very long time. Luckily,
convincing my friends that they would love some too isn't that
difficult. Nor is luring me into going
to a phony "Scottish festival" with a scoop of ice cream.
"Come on Najmeh, you know you want to. It'll be fun."
"Yeah Naj, it's gong to be great."
"Didn't you say you like Scottish dancing?"
Well, not
really. But I like bagpipes... sometimes. So I asked, "You
guys are sure I don't have to actually participate in any of
the actual ... stuff, right?"
"Of course not."
Well, I still don't know.
After ice cream, we are still starving
and head out to dinner. As usual, we are an indecisive bunch. Surrounded
by what seems
like
200 restaurants, we just stand there, no one wanting to "impose" their
taste on someone else... Not so easy when all the liquids in
your nose is frozen solid. Finally, we decide to give up all
glamour & class
and head to Harvey's.
Walking back, I meet Darrin for the first
time - Dave's roommate. Darrin from P.E.I. who seems particularly
shy. We sit to eat
and I watch from the corner of my eyes as Dave - like always
- closes
his eyes to say a silent prayer.
It reminds me of being taught "Bismellah-e Rahman-e Rahim" as
a child.
***
Once there at Wycliff College, we pay the $5 fee and
step in where a cute 20-something year old girl with a Scottish
accent
is there
to greet us.
It is a huge auditorium. It's a perfect setting for a "festival" -
except for the fact that the stage is dark and empty. There are
no bagpipes and no men with kilts like I had expected. Only about
40 or so students around a long buffet table. Some I recognize
from school, others are probably artsies, as we like to call
them in the faculty of engineering - along with some more provocative
names. They retaliate with songs like this, based on the tune Oh
my darling
Clementine:
I'm
an artsie,
I'm an artsie
I'm an artsie drinking beer
I would rather be an artsie, then a f*&^%ing engineer..."
***
Where
is the festival? What the heck is this? Where the hell am I?
"Ok, now that we all seem to be here, everyone grab your
partners!"
I
just want to leave my school bag, even my jacket... and run.
I've been tricked!
By nature I can be extremely shy and quiet in
certain places: when faced with a camera, or in the company of
distant family members, and when asked to indulge in the impossible
act of ...
dancing.
The
thought makes me cringe. But before I can plan
a reasonable escape, Rick is standing in front of me, and the
girl is shouting out instructions while the music is playing
loud and
clear. I feel as if any moment now my heart will stop beating...
forever.
I am extremely clumsy and uncomfortable. I am sweating. I am
once again a 6-year-old sitting on a dentist's chair. The palm
of my hand
feels sticky, and I feel sick to my stomach.
This is no festival, but a one-night class organized by an exchange
student from Scotland.
Now I begin to get
the picture.
Luckily Rick is almost as bad as I am. And so are a lot of
other people. I bump into them, they bump into me. They
smile, laugh,
wink, and I would too if I simply could muster an ounce
of strength.
"Now switch your partners, let someone else have their
turn!" she, exchange
student, screams. And I must sadly say goodbye to
Rick. My next
partner is a third-year industrial engineering student.
I've seen him in the
labs
at lunchtime. He is one of the people who has been there
since morning, quite good at what he's doing, and tries
to convince
me that I'm doing fine... liar.
Hours have
passed. I am dancing with a senior who happens to be studying
in my program.
His grin
makes me laugh. With the red goatee, wild red hair
and those glasses he reminds me of a completely disoriented
genius.
Last I checked
it was 10, but I've lost track of time long ago.
At some point as I was trying to follow instructions,
keep
rhythm with
my
partner
and not bump into too many people, the shyness, the
1000 miles/h heartbeats and the sweaty hands disappeared.
There are no bagpipes or kilts. Just us, on the stage,
on the ground, left and right. Sheltered
by the fire,
and the
lights and
the sound of our clattering feet, we are a
group of 20-somethings (except for me,
I'm 16) who have little to lose on this cold winter
night by making a fool of ourselves.
Hey, it's like they always said... when you're
tangled up, tango on.
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