Dancing to My Own Rhythm
Learning to tap dance at 54 challenged my brain and my body — and offered camaraderie, laughter and fun
The night my teen daughter's dance teacher held out a turquoise satin-and-sequined pantsuit in my size, I knew there'd be trouble.
"This is your costume for the concert!" Miss Lindsey exclaimed, handing me a matching jacket with lapels wide as the generation gap between her youngest tap-dancing student (age 8) and me (age 54).
The concert was a June event, performed on the community college's stage for 500. When my daughter had suggested in September that I sign up for a class at her studio, she'd said nothing about performing on stage in a get-up that made me look like a Lounge Lizard.
I held the pantsuit at arm's length and yelped. "Beginning Tap is a performance class?"
Miss Lindsey flipped her red ponytail over one shoulder and flashed the smile that's inspired a generation. "You'll be great," she replied.
I huffed calming lavender steam from the diffuser working overtime to combat the perfume of adolescent feet. Could I go through with this?
Dance and I have a fraught relationship. My graceful sister got ballet classes while I — clueless about moving my body in space — took piano. At a middle-school Sadie Hawkins debacle, a jock watched me shuffle to "Maniac" from "Flashdance" under the disco ball and declared for the entire gym to hear: "Melissa can't dance!"
"It's fine to be nervous off stage. But on stage, you've got to give the people what they've paid for."
His assessment stung. My great-grandparents soft-shoed in vaudeville theaters all over the United States. My grandmother cavorted in community theater, toting my mother along whenever a musical required a child dancer. But the real pro was my grandmother's boyfriend, Dale. He'd been a hoofer in movie musicals, backing Judy Garland in "Meet Me in St. Louis" and supporting a roster of celebrities in "Ziegfeld Follies."
After my high school drama teacher cast me as a tap-dancing secretary in "Bye, Bye Birdie," I called Dale, panicked. He taught me how to shuffle-ball-change on the kitchen floor in his slippers while my mother and grandmother and great-grandmother applauded. "It's fine to be nervous off stage," Dale told me. "But on stage, you've got to give the people what they've paid for."
I gave the people in my high school's theater — mostly chortling classmates — five dollars' worth of mediocre performance as I quaked with fear.
Fun and Joy
I felt that same terror as I tiptoed on my tap shoes into my daughter's dance studio crammed with kids and adults. My beloveds had, one by one, passed away, and I'd fallen into a depression. Though I read Catherine Price's "The Power of Fun: How to Feel Alive Again" and formed a weekly pub trivia team, the dark clouds remained impenetrable. "Sign up for tap!" my daughter suggested.
That first night, Miss Lindsey beamed at the mirrored wall, teaching 20 of us a warmup to "Shut Up and Dance." The sound and the movement felt playful, like splashing in puddles or stomping through crisp autumn leaves. I laughed out loud.
Dance, the scientists say, allows our brain to form new neural pathways. We become more efficient learners and memory-makers.
Dance, the scientists say, allows our brain to form new neural pathways. We become more efficient learners and memory-makers. Movement to music also offers a burst of serotonin, creating joyful social bonds.
Still, I struggled. I mixed up my toe taps with my heel taps. Performing a Buffalo turn in front of the mirrors, I looked like a literal buffalo attempting to pivot. How had Bill "Bojangles" Robinson tapped up and down stairs with Shirley Temple? How had Gene Kelly tapped with a push-broom as a partner? I watched the "National Geographic" short film about Fred, the tap-dancing turkey, and despaired at ever achieving his grace.
Miss Lindsey's choreography to a playful bass- and brass-heavy song included "a sneaky tiptoe," "a shivering shimmy" and the inevitable "jazz hands." I had no shimmy, and my jazz hands resembled 10 spiders rudely rousted from their reverie. How was I going perform without humiliating myself and my daughter who'd just learned to like me again after a prolonged bout of adolescent disgust?
For two months, it became one of the most difficult challenges that I — a former marathon runner — had ever faced.
I began to practice choreography daily on the laminate floor in my writing studio. I recorded Miss Lindsey's routine and played it back at quarter time; her chirpy instructions came out as if intoned by Morgan Freeman. Slowly, I began to grasp the steps, mastering every movement except for a complicated eight-count turn — an incomprehensible jumble of heel and toe taps.
I named it "Miss Lindsey's Turn." For two months, it became one of the most difficult challenges that I — a former marathon runner — had ever faced. I arrived early to class, begging dance moms to teach me the turn. At a party, I enlisted a teen classmate to help; he executed the move with mad skills in sneakers on shag carpet. Eight-year-olds crowded around me in the studio. "You've got this!" a first-grader lisped through missing front teeth.
I almost burst into tears.
'It'll Click'
"Don't worry about it," another mom told me. "One day, it'll click."
I believed in that possibility only a little less than I believed a deus ex machina helicopter would rescue me on the concert stage.
And then, it clicked. I executed a perfect Miss Lindsey Turn on my kitchen floor while making enchiladas in my slippers.
I tapped in line at the grocery store. I tapped while walking the dog. I tapped in my studio with photos of my deceased great-grandparents, my grandmother, my mother and Dale looking on.
But my triumph was short-lived. At dress rehearsal, I froze on stage under the hot, bright lights. We'd practiced our choreography in a studio. Suddenly, we had to fill up a vast stage. Our song played faintly over the speakers — so faintly that I couldn't hear it over the tapping. I forgot everything I'd learned.
"I want to quit," I told my daughter, echoing the words she'd wailed periodically over a decade as a dancer.
She responded as I always did. "You can do this."
For the next four days, I tapped in line at the grocery store. I tapped while walking the dog. I tapped in my studio with photos of my deceased great-grandparents, my grandmother, my mother and Dale looking on.
Showtime Showdown
And then, it was showtime. I waited in the wings, sweating in my satin pantsuit and jacket. My friends and family, my neighbors and writing students and teaching colleagues sat waiting. What if I forgot the choreography again? I knew their assessment would be merciless and swift: "Melissa can't dance!"
I performed the sneaky tiptoe. I performed the shivering shimmy. I performed jazz hands. And I performed Miss Lindsey's Turn … perfectly.
A preschool number ended, and then it was time. Fear froze me in place. Just in time, I heard Dale's voice in my head. "It's fine to be nervous off stage," he said. "But on stage, you've got to give the people what they've paid for."
Tickets for the show cost $20 a seat. That day, I danced as if every person in the audience had paid Broadway prices. I performed the sneaky tiptoe. I performed the shivering shimmy. I performed jazz hands. And I performed Miss Lindsey's Turn … perfectly.
I doubted anyone even noticed me in the back row, supporting the kid dancers at the front. Still, at intermission, my husband threw his arms around me. "You were having a great time up there!" he said.
I was. Tap dancing challenged my brain and my body. It offered camaraderie and laughter and fun. It brought three generations of my beloved family back to me. This season, I signed up for classes in both Beginning and Intermediate Tap.
But the turquoise satin and sequined pantsuit? That thing went straight to Goodwill.
Melissa Hart is the author of “Better with Books: 500 Diverse Books to Ignite Empathy and Encourage Self-Acceptance in Tweens and Teens.” She lives in Eugene, Oregon. Read More
