All the Way Around

“Tango Workshop on the 18th” read the neon letters on the marquee of the Plaza Arts Center, a movie theater turned dance hall. We had just arrived at the town square of Carrollton, a northwest suburb of Dallas, where a twice monthly contra dance is held. “Why does Tango get to be on the marquee?” Dave whined. As we walked closer, the word “Plaza” blinking in pink and green before us, we noticed a poster in front of the building: “Contra Dancing, Plaza Arts Center, Always Live Music!.”

“At least there’s a poster,” I reassured Dave.

The Plaza was unlike any contra dancing hall I had seen. The brand new floor stood below a dark wood stage. At the back of the hall was a two-tier balcony with wire framed, red-cushioned chairs and matching tables. People sat out dances in this cafe-like setting surrounded by full shelves of used books for sale. The sides of the floor held lit structures used for displaying art. We had arrived to this dance early and got a chance to peruse the galleries and library.

The dance started with a beginner’s workshop, taught by one of the callers for the night. She was from New England originally, and reportedly started the Dallas contra decades before when she moved to the area. She had everyone line up for a proper dance, men on one side, women on the other. As the lines waited for further instruction, a boisterous man strutted up the center of the lines and onto the stage. “Bass player coming through,” he proclaimed proudly.

“OK, OK, lets begin,” the instructor said, pretending to be annoyed with him. She showed a couple of simple moves and then introduced the swing, explaining, “You want to swing as fast as you can, ’cause we want this to be as fun as possible.” I was afraid for anybody that got near me and my partner; he took her advice, sending my braids whipping around our dance space. “If you get dizzy,” she added, “just pretend to look at your partner, and that will help. If you just look at their chin, they won’t notice you’re not really looking at them.” I winked at my partner’s beard.

At the end of the workshop, the caller lined up the dancers once more in proper formation. She instructed the leaders to hold their partners’ hands and face the stage. “This formation, men on one side, women on the other, is called proper because usually there would be royalty with the band on stage. All the dancers would bow to them before and after each dance.” As everyone mock bowed, the bass player crossed his arms and grunted approval. “I guess a Texan bass player is as close as we’re going to get here,” the caller continued.

There were more women than men that night, so I got many chances to practice leading. I danced with one woman who told me the history of the Plaza Arts Center. “It used to be a theater,” she said, “but then it got turned into an art gallery. The art gallery didn’t make enough money, and when the place closed down, that guy over there bought it.” She pointed to the line next to ours as I awkwardly tried to keep her outstretched arm from hitting anyone during our swing. “The one with the grey T-shirt,” she continued. “He does all kinds of dancing. He wanted to turn it into a dance space, but still wanted there to be art here—thats why those cases are there. I actually helped with the construction of this great floor. It used to be slanted, and he had us all in here with pickaxes ripping it up. It was fun.” She grinned.

Name tags had been provided at the door with the North Texas Traditional Dance Society logo on them: two dancing mice, the gent in a top hat and the lady in a bonnet. Before the next dance, my partner looked down at my name tag and said, “I never wear a name tag. It’s much nicer to ask someone what their name is.” I was about to agree, but then I realized how name tags had allowed Dave and I to easily find our hosts at dances. He told me his name as the caller ended our conversation by beginning the walk through. Right-hand star was the next move, and I realized that the wrist-grab stars were back! For the past few weeks, dancers had done either hands-across or hand-piles and Dave and I had only yesterday been discussing how we missed our native stars.

During the break, as the band tuned up for the second half, the caller came on to the stage and asked for volunteers for an upcoming dance weekend. It seemed to Dave and I that her words matched the music and she was free styling her pleas. “There’s no one signed up to bring bagels. We always have bagels. Well, I guess there won’t be any bagels this year,” she said sternly. It reminded me of the Nelson dance back home, and the threat of cancellation if no one volunteered to bring cookies the following week.

I sat out a dance later, taking pictures from the top balcony; it was St. Patrick’s day and the image below me was unusual. Almost every dancer sported a shade of green as if there was a dress code. Later, a neighbor of mine proudly told me about his costume. “I’m dressed as the Irish flag,” he said, attempting an Irish accent. He wore white pants, a green shirt, and an orange beret. The band that night, Squirrel Heads in Gravy, played almost entirely Irish tunes. When they announced that the next tune wouldn’t be Irish, the caller would try to connect the tune to Ireland in some way. Her favorite claim was that something in the name of the tune “came from county Claire,” including “squirrel heads in gravy,” an infamous Irish fare. This was the only dance I had been to that announced every tune the band would play during each dance. It was a nice way for the dancers to learn more about the music they move to.

The caller announced a circle mixer towards the end of the night. The moves were typical, but it had a new sound for us. When told to, “go into the center with a whoop and a holler,” the dancers let out a chorus of “yahooo!” “wahoo!” and “yeehaw!” The sounds of Texas, I thought.

-Carrollton, TX

This entry was posted on Sunday, March 18th, 2007 at 5:44 pm and is filed under 12 Texas. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.