He can dance if he wants to
He can leave his friends behind.
In recent weeks, I’ve caught myself uttering two sentences that I never, ever thought would pass my lips. Both of them were about my son. The first was, “We gotta get that boy into a dance class.” The second, “C’mon Nate – it’s time to put your leotard on.”
Interestingly enough, these statements are entirely unrelated to one another. The first was spoken in reference to Nate’s absolute, unfettered joy in dancing along to his favorite music. It’s a tendency we first noticed when a close family friend gave us a novelty electronic panic button that played the “Chicken Dance” when pressed. Nate’s physical response to the tune was both original and strikingly chicken-like in a frenetic, unchoreographed sort of way. He has since progressed to more elaborate and contolled dance moves to songs such as the Veggietales rendition of the B52’s “Rock Lobster” (“Rock Monster”) and the close-harmony singing of Ladysmith Black Mombazo. Kelly and I have encouraged him in this, and will continue to do so – it makes him happy, it gives him a little extra exercise, and I burn about 250 calories just from laughing (literally) my ass off. As for the leotard issue, that has to do with a potty-training/diaper-control technique that we’re trying at the moment. I won’t go into details – let’s just say that if I had a FEMA-issued hazmat containment tent available, I’d use that instead.
The point is, neither of those statements seem at all calculated to advance the accepted standard of masculinity that prevails in our little corner of the Midwest. Remember, we’re talking about a state that was carved (some might say stomped) out of the flat wilderness by hardy, taciturn northern Europeans who turned with disgust from the frou-frou hills and valleys of the east and the flashy, ostentatious mountains of the west. Those plains-breaking, clod-busting folk brought with them the solid, conservative values that made the challenge of life on the prairie possible – hard work, healthy living, God-fearing, three square meals per day and all that. None of their kids ever danced to the music of the B52’s – not even “Love Shack.”
Despite the weight of local culture and history against us, we are in principle a pro-dancing household. This is not to say that I dance frequently myself. My own attempts usually follow upon several pints of rum-and-coke at any given wedding reception, and often necessitate some kind of group intervention (i.e. tackling) to stop me on humanitarian grounds. Left unrestrained, my dancing style resembles the twitchy, crook-necked gyrations demonstrated by Charlie Brown and his pals on the old Peanuts television specials, only less elegant . . . and more dangerous. Those in doubt need only consult my wife, who will gladly recount her own narrow escape from serious injury and possible death while we performed the bride & groom’s “first dance” on our wedding day five years ago.
Happily, Nate is already showing signs of a higher level of technique. His principal style approximates Snoopy’s joyful “Suppertime” dance, crossbred with the aggressive, fist-pumping action of mid-‘80s icon Billy Idol. Other dance stylings in his repertoire range from slow spinning to Johann Strauss’ On the Beautiful Blue Danube, to ecstatic leaps and tumbles along with up-tempo gospel music. Just picture John Belushi and Dan Ackroyd in the “Reverend Cleophus James” episode in The Blues Brothers, and you’ll have a good idea of what I mean. I just thank God he’s shown no interest in country line dancing yet.
But the fundamental question remains: are we allowing Nate to develop unseemly, non-salt-of-the-earth habits by encouraging his dancing? By opting to enroll him in a dance class rather than, say, Deer Hunting for Toddlers at the local YMCA, are Kelly and I undermining the solid, masculine traits that would make life in the Midwest that much easier for him? Some might say, “Yes! Get that boy a tin of Skoal, a subscription to Guns & Ammo, and season tickets for the Huskers!” Others might say, “No, you’re doing fine, but can’t you steer him away from the B52’s?”
For my own part, I’ll just hold the course and say, he can dance if he wants to. But I’m still butch enough to hope that we can get rid of that damn leotard before he starts doing Baryshnikov impersonations in front of company in the living room.
I think he likes that thing just a little too much.
