Jason Rodriguez - The Moose in the Closet: A Decade of Dancing: Put On Your Dancing Shoes

No blurb today – I spent the evening burnt red with cold sweats, nausea and a major headache. The sun fucked me up so bad – God damn you, Myrtle Beach.
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I think the first time I “danced” with a girl that wasn’t a family member was in the 7th grade. My Junior High School was having a dance in the cafeteria and for some reason I thought it would be a really good idea to go. This was the JHS, mind you, where half the school was black and Latino from Red Hook, half was Italian mobster in training from Carroll Gardens and about sixty of us (including me) where nerds from all walks of life. And for some reason, I thought it was a good idea to go to a dance in the cafeteria.

Most of my friends thought I was nuts and hardly anyone else went. I made sure to go with Dwayne because he was, you know, black, figuring everything would be OK. We get to the cafeteria, grab a soda and see a circle forming on the dance floor, people shooting, “Go! Go! Go!”

We walk over to the circle and it takes about five seconds for me to get pushed in. The six-foot tall white kid with the slicked back hair and mullet, fake glasses, silk shirt and peace emblem hanging from my neck – I should have seen it coming.

I get raped on the dance floor – big black asses flying through the air and ramming into my pelvis while everyone laughs. I sort of pumped my first in the air while I got bounced around the circle, everyone on the outside chanting, “Go whiteboy! Go whiteboy! Go whiteboy!”

I eventually managed to sneak out of the circle and left the party – realizing that I really don’t like dancing.

A year later we were going on our senior trip. They only offered the yearly trips to the smart students so it was a break from the daily shit we dealt with at school and a welcomed one at that. I talked about our 7th grade trip already, to Pocono Peak. They followed-up that awesome trip involving cliff diving, soft ball and water balloon fights with a one-day trip to a Dude Ranch.

Dude Ranch and city folk is a bad combination. And to make it worse, they were having a dance for us that night, like a prom of sorts, and we all felt the need to get dressed up. So here I was – my usual fly gear – at a dirty, disgusting, shit infested Dude Ranch. I did a good job of staying clean – I choose to do indoor activities like square dancing lessons and watching old spaghetti Westerns. That is until an hour before the dance, when I decided to squeeze in some horseback riding.

City boys don’t get to ride horses. And when a pretty girl invites you along, you do it. I rode my horse across the trail and when I got back my ultra-fly khakis where caked in mud and horse shit. I was a bit embarrassed but I went to the dance anyway, albeit a little less fly.

The dance was typical 8th grade stuff – girls on one side, boys on the other. I don’t know what girls talk about on their side; the boys tend to talk about video games (Genesis being the system of choice at the time) and sports (despite the fact that few of use actually watch it – the conversation was usually “The Mets are the best.” “Nu-uh, Yankees rule.” “C’mon, dude, 1986.” “Whatever, Mets suck”).

But then something magical happened. Over two hundred pounds of love with an entourage started blasting through the speakers. Heads start bobbing as we hear, “Now that we found love what are we gonna do…with it?” Little rumps started shaking, knees started rising up in the air and mouths started spewing lyrics in effigy to the genius that is Heavy D and the Boyz.

Come on, Heavy. Come on, Heavy.

We started dancing – first on our respective sides of the auditorium – eventually moving towards the center. A circle formed, a girl jumps in. Us boys try to push one of our own in. He laughs and fights it, violently shaking his head “no”. He finally caves and begins to dance with the lady and the chants begin: “Go! Go! Go shorty! Go shorty!”

We took turns going in the circle, dancing. Heavy D turned to C&C Music Factory. C&C Music Factory gave way to Snap. And then “Let’s Dance the Last Dance” played, the stereotypical clueless DJ that follows cliché and plays disco music for a bunch of pre-teenagers that abhors it, and it was time to go home.

Ten minutes of dancing that was greatly unlike my first dancing experience. I was born anew, dancing was my new God. We piled on the bus, got back to Brooklyn. I danced home, telling G that I wish we could have stayed longer – I wish I could have danced longer.

And so begin my obsession with dancing – my love – that I’ve stayed faithful to since despite never actually learning how to do it well (or at all, really).

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A Decade of Dancing: Put On Your Dancing Shoes

Sunday, August 28, 2005

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