Being a Man: One Dance Step at a Time

In the past year I have delved deeper and deeper into the world of swing dancing, and as I've advanced in skill, I've begun to take short jaunts over the gender line and begun to lead instead of follow.

Last weekend in a swing class I decided to take on my greatest opponent yet and attempt to learn the male part of the lindy hop. As it took six months of regularly making a fool of myself to learn the girl part in this step, I assumed this would be an arduous and painful process. However, the boredom that would be induced by going through my umpteenth beginner’s lindy lesson as a follow was not to be tolerated. I had no choice; I must bury my pride and be a man.

When I first walked across and joined the "man's" side of the lesson I received some incredulous looks. As the instructor told us to pair up his eyes paused on me for a second and he said slowly "So.... you are a man?" "Yes I am" I said with confidence. I was not confident, but I was not about to let this MAN go thinking I was afraid of being a man. "I know plenty of men," I thought "this can't be that hard."

But it was. There is so much to think about when you are leading; especially when you are leading a girl who has no idea what she is doing (and is, not to mention, much taller than you). And there is all this pressure. With every hiccup in the process I could almost hear the girl thinking "You're the lead, you fix it." I became tense. I could feel my face contort into the strained expression I see on so many of the men I dance with. This was very hard, but I was determined to be a good man. I focused in. I will lead well. I can be a man.

First I was told I wasn't being clear enough in my leading. So, I tightened up. Next thing I know, I am being told that I am "man-handling" my follow. Despite the fact that this was a criticism I couldn't help being a little pleased at the thought of my getting in trouble for being overly masculine.

After much trial and error I am pleased to report to you that by the end of the night I had the lead's side of the lindy hop down pat. The last girl I danced with told me I was better than most men she knew at being a man.

No offense to any of you who have spent long years learning to be men, but I can't say I'm surprised. I always had a sneaking suspicion that I could be a man if I just put my mind to it.

Two Men in a Nursing Home

[Preface: Goodness gracious, am I feeling prolific lately or what?!?]

I just left a nursing home where I visit a friend of mine every couple of weeks. My friend has been through countless hardships since he entered the home 4 years ago after a stroke, but most recently he had both of his feet amputated. Today as we caught up with each other, he confessed to me that he had been in very bad spirits. He admitted apologetically that he'd been very sad and angry lately, and that he had decided he would ask his doctor if he could up the dosage on some meds that he takes to get out of his "bad mood." Because, you see, he knows full well (from the uneasy looks from nurses and friends like me) that it is inappropriate that he be sad and angry. The kind thing to do would be to not bother himself (or the rest of us) with his grief and outrage over his life circumstances. It's embarrassing really, and if he doesn't medicate it away pretty quickly, people will get tired of him.

I left wondering about this shame with which we often carry our sadness. I get the impression that we expect ourselves on the whole to be basically happy and content (unless someone has died, and even that excuse runs out pretty quickly). I often feel extremely ridiculous for my pain. I apologize to people who see it. "Sorry I'm hurting, I'll do better next time." The pain somehow seems indulgent and burdensome to others. "What right" I think to myself, "do I have to hurt??" Typing this thought so overtly now sounds absurd, but it is most certainly a mantra that plays in my mind regularly. For some odd reason, we feel embarrassed for our pain.

I don't know about the rest of you, but I find myself most embarrassed about pain that is connected to romantic love, or one of the avenues to get there (namely: dating). It is not uncommon for me to bemoan the whole exercise as a terrific waste of my energy and resources. Why on earth should anyone expose themselves to a type of relationship so riddled with hidden possible injuries? But today after visiting my friend - my friend who even now has begun to mourn the loss of my presence which will not happen for a year - I realized that wherever two people genuinely care for each other, pain is an inevitable bi-product. Even the most stable friendships and family relationships have no hope of avoiding pain. In the course of love you hurt each other; you get sick and are fearful for each other; you miss each other; you face painful aspects of yourself in each other's eyes. These relationships carry pain with them. Though I certainly think it is prudent to be careful with one's intimacies, it occurs to me just now that no one can "careful" themselves out of grief.

It's been years now since I cognitively rejected the American dream, but I cannot help but think that this rejection of sorrow as a normal response to everyday life is a symptom of my continued allegiance to it. Am I working for real goodness and love, or am I surreptitiously continuing on with my "rightful" pursuit of happiness?

I think my natural ideal is that I would deal with life, perhaps not always with a smile, but at least with gritted determination. Serious determination is acceptable, but not sadness and lament. But would it not be just as noble (or dare I say, more so?) for me to join Jesus as a "[wo]man of sorrows"? The truth is, I'd rather not be confined to either title. I don't want to be known as a cheerleader, or a prophetess of death and destruction (the way I've begun sometimes thinking of myself post-Bangladesh). "Would it be alright" I ponder seriously, "if I could express both joy and sadness as often as it seems I need them?... but how often is that?" Recently, reading a chapter on "self-love" in a textbook, I was told that people should make time to mourn. Alright then, I'll do that. What sounds appropriate for a mourning to happiness ratio? Say... mmmm... one day a week for mourning and the rest go to happiness?

I ended therapy with a long term client the other day who'd been struggling with depression. We talked for a while about how much progress she had made and how she was dealing with things differently, and feeling differently about herself. At one point I asked her about her sadness and she said it had not gone away. With some deliberation she admitted to me honestly, "I am still sad, but this past week I realized... well, maybe the sadness isn't a problem." To this incredibly brave soul, I say, "Amen."

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I saw another man at the nursing home when I was first coming in. He was being wheeled toward a van as I approached the door. As I neared him he looked at me and cried loudly, "Do you know where I'm going?" "No, I'm sorry I don't" I said, assuming he had dementia. "I am going to see my wife of ONE hour. Can you believe that?!" He laughed. "Wow" I said, "you've been married one hour? Congratulations." "Yes" he pronounced joyfully, "52 years and 1 hour."

Life. Who would have guessed?

[Afterward: After composing this entry I decided to make chocolate chip cookies, and I have decided that this is a most superb post-pondering activity... in case you're looking for one :-) ]