Trauma

Our small village of Warkworth is one of almost constant activity: Maple syrup festivals, fall fairs, art shows, theatre, concerts, street festivals and more. Last night was such an event. The main street was closed. People I had never seen before came out of the woodwork. Children and parents abounded. There was food, music and dancing on the street. It was a true delight.

Now, I consider myself a reasonably good dancer, but by no means one that would win awards. I also consider myself to be a good listener and a fairly quick learner. Both considerations were crushed last night at our village’s street festival in front of a sizeable crowd of onlookers.

Reluctantly, I had offered myself up to learn square dancing because a male was desperately sought after to join the fray. I may have done some square dancing back in public school in the late 1950s. The recollection is only faint at best. I have certainly done Scottish Country dancing in the distant past and became quite accomplished at it. This is not unlike square dancing I had thought. Moreover, line dancing had been a regular entertainment for me and my life partner in the early 1990s. And only a few years ago I had competently joined a happy group of street revelers in dance on May Day in a seaside town in Cornwall, England. Good enough credentials I would have thought.

I was placed with a dance partner on one side of what was, I presumed, a square formation made up of four couples. The very first instruction, if it can be called that, was to – let’s say - “adeline”, (because I don’t remember the exact term and cannot find it on the internet) “to the left”. It would have been helpful if we had been told or even better, shown, what an “adeline” (or whatever) was. However, as the music began, I was quickly hauled to the right! And then, as I presumed I was to proceed in that direction, I was shoved to the left by some older, more experienced and seemingly rather cranky dancer. At one point someone snapped at me to let go of my partner’s hand, as if this should have been eminently obvious to me, and I was shoved inexplicably in another direction. After more such confusion, pushing and sheer bewilderment and frustration, and lacking in any coherent instruction, I fled from the pack to the sidelines and left my dance partner on her dismayed own.

Dancing should be fun. This was not – at least not for me. I did enjoy the animated belly dancing that followed, although as a bemused observer.