Armed Combat : On Post-Feminist Dance Floor, It’s Lead, Follow or Get Out of the Way

And so it must be noted that the opening salvos in the final battle in the War of Equality were fired by a hardy band of American women during the Spring of ’93 in a small building just down the street from Hart High School in Newhall. For two months, this group of a dozen or so freedom fighters hunkered down each Friday evening, taking no prisoners. And when it ended, this much was clear: These women of the ‘90s had decided to lead. I love Linda. And Linda loves . . . to dance.

And since we first met a decade ago in an Arizona club, an amiable but defining point of contention has centered on dancing.

She believes I willfully and maliciously romanced and misled her by pretending I liked to dance. I claim--and I am sure most reasonable persons would agree--it is a simple misunderstanding. Hey, everyone knows that guys only dance to pick up girls. I married the girl, so now I don’t have to dance.

Still, after being reared in a family where personal guilt has been elevated to an art form, I have occasionally tried to be flexible. One such occasion, two years ago, led me kicking and screaming to a country-Western dance class. That disaster ended when I couldn’t learn to kick properly with the beat, and my “Yee Ha” was deemed inappropriate.

Which resulted, of course, in our conversation earlier this winter after the postal carrier dropped off the Spring Program Guide of the Santa Clarita Parks and Recreation Department.

Linda surmised that my problem might have been the kind of dance class we had taken before: “Social ballroom dance looks like it could be fun. And easier.”

This time, I didn’t kick and scream. She didn’t even need to resort to the dreaded Flying Albanians’ Double-Reverse Death Hold, which recently has been banned by the Worldwide Wrestling Federation. She simply filled out the form and sent in a check.

Then, I caught a break.

Seems too many Santa Clarita wives had sent in registration forms and checks. We were too late, our letter informed. “Don’t say anything,” Linda instructed as she broke the news. “I can see how disappointed you are.”

Imagine my surprise when a few days later she called from work: “Great news! There was such demand that the teacher has decided to schedule a second dance class.”

There is a God, I thought. And she is watching over Linda.

*

Kendy Boss is a professional ballroom dancer and contest judge whose patience and fine sense of humor allow her to teach beginning social dancers. She broke the ice during the first lesson by asking how many people were taking the class to have fun or improve their dancing. Half the room raised their hands or voices.

The rest, obviously fellow graduates of the Hold ‘em Tight and Shuffle School, chuckled when she next inquired how many were attending under some form of duress.

Still, the first two lessons didn’t go too badly; men and women, smiling and united against the common enemy: Fear of looking like fools. There were even a couple of times I had to catch myself before I treaded in dangerous water--starting to have fun.

The first sign of trouble arose during our third lesson, when our teacher, obviously unaware of just what her place in history was about to become, uttered a heresy. As we practiced the fox trot--similar to the country two-step, but without songs about hard liquor, soft women, cheatin’ and pickup trucks--Kendy abruptly called a halt.

“Ladies,” she said simply, “it’s the man’s job to lead.”

The room fell silent and a chilled wind passed through. The men, giddy with a foolish and reckless abandon, gasped: “Right on. Yes. Thank you, Jesus.”

The women froze, then laughed nervously: A sister had betrayed them and someone was going to pay. The men had a hunch who might be writing those checks.

Things moved along fairly smoothly during the next two weeks as Kendy introduced us to the Waltz and East Coast Swing. In the sixth week, however, she again reminded the class just who was supposed to lead and even had us practice a special exercise for about 10 minutes.

Later, as Linda waltzed me past other couples, I regularly overheard a familiar refrain: “You heard the teacher,” a man would say. “Are you going to let me lead, or what?”

The women just smiled.

By week seven it became obvious that those smiles camouflaged something unspoken, but sinister. The class had formed in a circle for a refresher session of the merengue , a fast ballroom dance you’re either born to do well--or not.

On this night, Kendy decided that at the end of each complete set of steps, the men would pass their partner to the right. That way, each man would dance with six or seven women during one song.

By the fifth partner, I realized that it wasn’t just Linda who didn’t want me to lead; other than Kendy, there wasn’t a woman in the room who had the slightest intention of following any man.

They had spent their lives dancing backward, trying to follow men who generally didn’t have a care--or a clue. For most men, dancing is a means to an end. For women, it is the end.

And these rebels have been pushed around, stepped on, squeezed, spindled, bent, folded and mutilated for the last time.

*

Rumors have surfaced that the women’s lead movement--appropriately called No Steps Back!--had spread to dance classes in Pacoima, and into the San Gabriel Valley.

But there also are unconfirmed reports of some resistance. A small, yet valiant group of patriots is said to be waging hand-to-waist combat near Needles and in southern Orange County.

I wish the brothers well.