The Joy (and Pain) of Dance Camp
- 3 days ago
- 6 min read
Embracing Duality
Sunday night in the pavilion the energy is palpable — a hundred-plus dancers two-stepping, slow-quick-quick, to the zydeco beat. "Somebody scream!" cries the bandleader — and my partner and I pause for a breath to let out yelps of joy — our voices rising with the chorus to the rafters. My heard thumps and feet stomp as deep blue accordion notes resound in my chest. Zydeco, they say, is the most fun you can have with your clothes on.
As the frenetic two-step segues into a lilting waltz and a new partner takes my hand, gliding me, one-two-three, across the floor — corn meal grit swishing beneath our soles — I am living and breathing this mantra.
I've been dancing Cajun-zydeco since my late 20s — since the early days down at the Twist and Shout, an old VFW hall turned rousing roadhouse over the weekends. Just a mile from my house, in Bethesda, the joint attracted bands all the way up from Loosiana — gracing us with the down and swampy bayou music.
Once that creole rhythm gets in your blood, it's not easy to purge — and why would you want to? At age 60, I'm still going strong. One dance friend clocked us at 30k steps the first day of dance camp — turns and promenades workshop in the morning, followed by the afternoon Cajun fais do-do, then an evening cocktail party before dinner, and wrapping up with the nighttime zydeco ball under twinkling lights.
By the third night, as I tug off my sweaty dance boot and slide on flip-flops then hobble across the fields to the dining hall for the midnight snack — I cannot let myself wonder if I'll make it. High on endorphins, I will — I must keep going.
"They shoot horses, don't they?" I joke over crackers and cheese cubes with my fellow faded, happy campers, recalling the old movie about the depression-era dance marathons.* In those desperate days they'd rather die of exhaustion than lose the coveted prize money. A few catch the arcane reference and chuckle. "Yeah, and we pay to dance 'til we drop."
The next and final morning I'll be up at 7 to teach Yoga for Dancers. Sinking into my cot, in my tent, thighs vibrating, I imagine yoga counter-poses that might help this body — and the other pained yet blissful dancer bodies – find some relief.
Dancing six hours a day through chronic pain on a crooked, twisted scoliosis spine isn't easy. But I'm not the only one in camp managing an ailment. The average age of our community, by now, is pushing 70. Most of us have been dancing upwards of 30 to 40 years! We're replete with bad hips and knees, many of them replaced, not to mention debilitating bunions. Among us we have stroke survivors — cancer survivors — and survivors of partners lost to illness.
One fellow I've danced with on and off for decades, Dick, wears a nostalgic Twist & Shout tee that reads "LAST DANCE 9/6/98." He's 88, now, but he's NOT on his last leg by a long shot. As we dance, he reveals that he's got two metal plates in his head from a recent brain surgery, and a feeding tube in his chest to manage the aftermath of stomach cancer. But his boots are perfectly polished, his lead is masterful and his blue eyes shine as we lilt and glide.
How do we reconcile these two opposing truths — our joy and our pain — our vitality and our demise?
Last July, a longtime dance friend and neighbor — who'd been playing rub-board at his own birthday party just two days before — was hit, out of the sweltering summer blue, with a massive brain hemorrhage. I know his story intimately because I was there, a guest, staying in the room above, when it happened. His wife, my good friend, Claudia, was traveling at the time and claims I saved her husband's life. I just happened to be at the right place and time at 3 am when his indiscernible guttural cry awoke me straight out of a deep sleep and moved me into action.
A year later — post-brain surgery and an all-consuming regimen of PT, Wayne is at dance camp — up on his feet, his paralyzed left side just beginning to cooperate with his right. I step up for a dance and he grasps me firmly — and I grasp him back. Wayne was known throughout the community for his smooth, sensuous lead. Now he rocks in place with as much grace as he can muster. When his left foot catches a bit of rare air, I notice a smile spread across his normally-taciturn face — the joy of motion amidst the pain of loss.
But there's no pity, here. In fact, we all marvel: in his less than ambulatory state - partners pulled in close to hold him steady - Wayne's getting the sexiest bump-and-grind dances in camp.
I'm back from Buffalo Gap. Happily, out of necessity, once the festivities concluded, I gave myself three extra days at camp. In the ghostlike aftermath – soaking in the stillness, swimming in the pond, stretching on the porch – I hoped and planned to recover. But I'm home and still hurting. In fact, with the dance endorphins dissipated, the pain is worse than ever. My hips are on fire, flames radiating down my thighs — my bulging lumber throbs. Can't stand, can't sit, can't walk. Even laying on my mattress hurts.
In pain, my energy plummets — I cannot focus on anything but the ache and how to escape it. The mind takes me to dark places. Am I going to need to see the spine surgeon, again? Revisit the lumbar fusion option? Reimagine never again dancing a rousing zydeco or flowing through a voluptuous vinyasa — all caged in by steel rods and bolts?
It's Thursday, four days post-dance camp. A favorite band is playing up at our favorite dance joint, and my roommate’s getting ready. She bids me to join her. FOMO fills my veins as, reclined on the sofa, I shake my head.
The door closes and I’m left alone with the purring of the AC fan. I think of Dick and Wayne and so many dancers with challenges, seated on the sidelines. Taking a breather.
I am not alone. I'm living in a human body.
A cool shower, a dose of muscle relaxers, a stint of legs up the wall. Then I climb into bed, sink down, eyes closed, and drift back…onto the dance floor…in my dreams.
*They Shoot Horses, Don't They? (1969), directed by Sydney Pollack, based on Horace McCoy's 1935 novel. Jane Fonda, Michael Sarrazin, and a haunted cast dance for days on end in a Depression-era marathon, chasing a $1,500 prize while a huckstering emcee (Gig Young, in an Oscar-winning role) keeps the crowd entertained. One of my parents' favorite films, it's dark and dramatic and stays with you for decades - obviously. Nine Oscar nominations and one of the bluntest metaphors for endurance and spectacle Hollywood ever put on screen.
Cajun & Zydeco: A Primer
Both Cajun and zydeco trace back to the same corner of the world — southwest Louisiana's "Acadiana" region — but grew from different roots. Cajun music descends from the French-speaking Acadians, exiled from Nova Scotia in the 1750s, who carried their old-world ballads and fiddle tunes into the Louisiana prairies. Zydeco comes out of Creole culture — the Black French-speaking communities of the same region — and draws on a wider mix of influences: Caribbean rhythm, West African percussion, and later, blues and R&B. For decades the two musical traditions evolved side by side, overlapping constantly, until zydeco found its own distinct voice in the years after World War II.
The differences show up most clearly on the dance floor. Cajun leans on fiddle and diatonic accordion, moves through waltzes and two-steps, and carries a rootsy, front-porch warmth. Zydeco trades the fiddle for the rubboard — a corrugated metal vest played with spoons or bottle openers — layers in piano accordion, bass, and drums, and drives everything at a bluesier, funkier clip built for all-night dancing. Different instruments, different heartbeat — but the same French-Louisiana soul underneath. The most versatile of the dancers get that braided history and deftly hop the rails from one genre to the other, taking advantage of every possible chance to dance.his is a placeholder paragraph. Replace this text with your own content.
Comments