The Anonymous Dancer Yardley Community Center, the sign read. The steps leading up to the broad open doors were wooden. Each creak on the wood brought me back fifty years. There were four steps—and sure enough—I entered a wooden dance hall that transported me back two-hundred years. The dancers were contemporary but the dance was early American . The origins of Contra Dance are difficult to trace. It is a folk dance made up of long lines of couples. Its mixed origins from English country dance, Scottish, French dance styles in the 17th century have strong African influence from Appalachia. A table was set up at the entrance of the hall. A light breeze blew past me and swirled through the dancers and out of the back door. I had an invitation to attend from a couple who attended Contra Dances throughout the area. A dull stomping in time echoed on the wooden-slat floor as feet touched down after flight in a swing or during a promenade. Mandolins and strings kept the beat. Looking at the stage I hoped to pick Kurt out from among the fiddlers. A breeze came through again swirling among the skirts and then round through the building. I stood still fascinated with the event I had come to observe. I, a deliberator of the arts, a non-dancer. The table was filled with papers on dance: Contra bands, English Country, Country Line, where to go, what to wear, who was playing when, inviting beginners to “come early” to practice. Was I a beginner? Finally I noticed the woman sitting at the table. Her hair loosely wound around her head, she kept time as her flowing dress bounced up and down with a swing of a crossed leg. I forced a smile when I saw her. It was an “I don’t belong here do I? ” smile. It was my religious habit. I hadn’t changed into secular clothes because I was just an observer and really came for the live music. I barley kept myself from walking out of the Yardley Community Center. I was here to observe and by golly, I was going to. I fumbled through some of the handouts and folded them up into my pocket. Then I noticed the chairs lined up against the dance floor wall. This is what I would do—take the flyers over there and read them. My stomach felt a little funny because I had waited too long to enact my plan. The bun lady was about to speak to me. Glancing at the chairs and started to head that way—too late. “Are you here for the dance?” I smiled and looked at the dancers as if to say “Dance? Oh, is that what this is?” Instead I said, “I’m meeting someone here.” As I said this stared at the stage looking for my friends. Just as I was about to leave again the sign requesting a $6.00 entrance fee clarified the woman’s question. I fumbled through my pocket, found my wallet and pulled out two bills, a five and a one. Emboldened I placed them in the basket and went to sit down. The music stopped. I didn’t want to look but somehow knew that dancers were dispersing and coming toward me. My goal was a chair directly in front of me—about two feet— “Hey, you’re new here—right?”
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The voice came from above me and behind a whiskered face. The chair was now one and a half feet away—so close! “Yes. I’m waiting for a friend.” “Well, how about the next dance while you wait. My name is Bob.” “I’m…I’m not a dancer Bob.” One more foot to the chair— “You don’t have to be a dancer. I’ll lead you through the steps. C’mon the music is about to start.” “I may mess up the dance—I’m not sure about just giving it a try….” I vaguely heard the caller on stage: “Can I have two lines. Women on the right this time. We start with the women’s chain and then promenade….” Suddenly the room was out of focus. I was across from Bob but mentally I was elsewhere The music started. I couldn’t follow the directions. I saw Bob for a minute and then another person and another as everyone changed partners and pattern every eight beats. The music was endless. I wanted someone to grab me out of the line and confirm my fears: “You are mess’in up the whole dance, lady.” But no one did. Suddenly I was facing Bob again—a little dizzy but still standing. “Let me show you how to do the swing without getting dizzy.” Bob offered. “You put your right foot…no your right foot in the middle. You will kind’a pivot on that foot. Hands here. Ok. Now see, it’s a little easier when you know the step. And look at your partners eyes (all twenty of them, I thought) or stare at his lapel. This will keep you from getting dizzy.” “Dizzy,” I repeated. “Thanks Bob. I think I’m just going to sit down for a while.” I pointed to the so-far-elusive chair and started walking toward it. “Hello, my name is Tom. Would you like the next dance?” “You may not have seen me in the last dance,” I said. “I can’t dance.” “Practice by doing. That’s the best way to learn. Besides I will lead you in the steps.” The music started. What! No break! I missed the instructions. Before I knew it I was swirling through the line. I tried to remember the hold, the right foot in, fall back, looser. I didn’t know where to put my hands so I felt like a marionette with cut strings. On the way through the line I had a seven-
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year-old partner. My next partner noticed and said, “The kids really learn fast.” That was encouraging. Maybe I was too old—no, now I was determined to learn. Kyle invited me to the next dance number. Instead of a line we formed a huge circle. I lost Kyle and the next partner from the outset. I was out of the dance. Now I sat down but bewildered. How did I lose my partner? I turned to the person next to me: “How did that happen?” I asked. “It happens. I’ve seen it happen before. It’s sort of like a vortex right there. He pointed to an area in the circle where people seemed a little confused. “You get caught up in it and then, swish, you are out.” I looked at him. A vortex in a humanly formed circle? Or was it an “event horizon” near a black hole? I found myself surprisingly disappointed. Everyone looked like they were having fun. I waited to see if anyone else was mysteriously booted out, but that phenomenon didn’t occur again. After the dance Kyle found me: “Let’s try that again.” During the break—there was a break—long time dancers lined up to teach me steps. They were sincerely interested in my understanding of the dance so that I could enjoy it. By now it was late. I had been dancing an hour. I had not intended to stay that long. I had not intended to dance. “Will you be my partner in the next dance?” a broad shouldered man inquired. “I really should be going—but it has been great.” “One more,” he said. I felt my exhaustion yet I also felt exhilarated. “One more to wrap up the evening.” When the music began it was almost impossible to not start moving. For the first time I felt the sweat on my partners hands, saw the sweat dripping as we swung through breezes from one to another—as in a jungle-gym switching bars we moved down the line. My experience was now total—sight, hearing, touch, even the taste of salt as sweat dripped down my face into my mouth. This was incarnation. I had stepped down from the empirical and entered the timeless community of human communicators introducing me to life in the dance. This was a liturgy, an interactive gospel proclamation. Everyone is welcome, everyone shares, everyone sustains. The Eternal was here in our everyday common welcoming. A community of Christian worshippers nourished in the church and flowing out to continue the dance in the Community Center. Someone told me that it had not always been this way. At one time the experienced dancers didn’t want to dance with the beginners. The numbers shrank and the dance was dying. Now it is open to all anonymous dancers.
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Sr Margaret Kerry, fsp An Anonymous Dancer original 1997; edits March 2017
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