Last Thursday night I had my first real dance; the kind of dance that reeks of a sweaty juke joint, some cheap gin, and a tomorrow not promised when somebody pulls out a switchblade over a card game. This dance (Memphis or Chicago in style, but DC in locality), came from a gentleman who I can only assume was older than my father, as evidenced by a sharp cream linen shirt paired with an even sharper panama hat. As the DJ at Marvin spun Al Green’s “Love and Happiness” to a crowd of youngin’s like myself whose only memories of the song laid in our momma’s record collections, this gentleman gently coxed me by the arm and proceeded to dance with me as if it was he, not Al, who sang “Love and Happiness”; as if our very dance depended on whether or not the steady drum would continue to kick under that sweet, sweet church organ. It was in this dance that I learned a valuable lesson. A lesson that made me wish that I was 21 in 1973; a year when men and women “courted”, and though I might have been a low paid secretary and my husband an underpaid factory worker, at the end of the day after our Black Panther meeting we could put on some Al Green and slow drag.

So what is the lesson I learned you may ask? Simply put:

When dancing, let the man lead.

After many years of perfecting my impersonal 360 booty grind (which after a few drinks is BET late night ready), I was taking aback by the fact that 1) this gentleman wanted to start the dance off face to face (ladies, y’all know what I mean) and 2) by taking the lead this gentleman was an active participant in the dance (once again, ladies, y’all know what I mean). Had I, even in all my “righteousness”, become so conditioned to believe that when dancing with a man you should pull out all the bump and grind moves you’ve been practicing with your cousin ever since you were 12 and heard Lil Kim’s, “Hardcore”?  Sadly the answer was/is yes, but in the back of my mind I always knew there had to be something more to dancing with a man than having him know the curve of my butt or the sway of my hips before he even knew my name, and last Thursday I found out. Though I could barley keep up with this gentleman at least 20 years my senior (throughout the dance, he would continuously rasp in my ear, “No...No...No… follow me now”), I must admit, it was the best dance I ever had simply because it was respectful and he took the lead. So this summer I have resolved to learn the art of a good ol’ school slow drag; the kind of slow drag that requires red light bulbs, basements, and a plan afterwards, but until it’s 1973 again I’ll just take Marvin’s on a Thursday nights after 11PM. And that’s alright with me.