La Nuit Blanche

[Due to the sensitive nature of this topic, a disclaimer is in order (my first on this blog): the main character involved has been disguised by the imaginary name of X, no pronouns will be used to refer to this person's gender, and I will not answer any questions asked me, here in the blogosphere, or in my real life (hello, Friends!), as to this person's identity.]

It is a touchy subject… But I feel I must address it.

Yes, it’s true. There is malice in our dear Tangoland.

There are many instances of back-stabbing, name-calling, betrayal, ignorance, trickery, knife-thrusting, grumpy grump, stubborness, lying, and overall general drama in our beloved realm. And all this has been foreseeable, though regrettable, and in perfect accordance with the natural Order of the Universe. Afterall, our Tangoland is a part of the Real World, too.

But it hurts very much when a friend has gone over to the Dark Side, and this friend doesn’t even realize it.

I have such a friend, or, someone who used to be a friend, named X, who in the beginning of our story, seemed to be a vastly different person from the one revealed to me over time.

X has become a tiresome person. There are two things that make X tiresome… First, a persistent prejudice against certain members of our community, and second, the ignorance of racism. In the first offense, X is only harming X. And in the second offense, X is harming others.

This person X is quick to put certain members of the community into little categories all made up in X’s mind, and labelling one particular category with snide, unflattering appellations such as “The Group”, and “The Stuck-Ups”.

It is hurtful, since these kind, sweet people are fast becoming my friends.

These are the people who danced with me when no one else would. These are the people who watched me spin myself into a cocoon, and are continually delighting in my budding (albeit wrinkly) wings. These are the people who encourage me to continue, and take care of me when I am sitting alone at milongas or festivals. And who protect me from unwelcome advances. These are people who will dance with beginners and encourage them to keep coming back. And X refers to these people as “The Stuck-Ups”. Which is simply not the case, in my experience. The injustice of it makes me angry, especially when said to my face.

Don’t get me wrong — I, myself, have been terrorized by tan-egos and tan-egoistas, and horrible tangorillas, and individuals who are just so incredibly, consistently stuck up, that it is a torture to even have their glance turn in my direction. I still avoid these people. I run across one or two new ones, occasionally. Sadly, little does X know that X has become one of the people X claims to despise, and doubly sadly, I now find X just as horrible a tangorilla as this one, or this one, in male, or female form.

Another personality quirk that X has, is to dismiss the non-Argentine teachers, dancers, and milonga hosts in our community as unworthy of attention or praise. “I will stick to my Argentine teachers, if you please,” X says. Upon watching performances by revered non-Argentines, X exclaims, “What a crock of mierda. These Americans/Europeans have no idea what tango is about.” (Actually, the Argentines say “carajo”, not “mierda”, to refer to crap). And undoubedly, X, who also happens to be non-Argentine, feels that X is an expert in “what tango is all about.”

I don’t mean to sound so politically correct. I’m not trying to, honestly. But it is just common sense that just because a teacher/dancer is Argentine, doesn’t mean he is a great teacher/dancer. Conversely, just because a teacher/dancer is not Argentine, doesn’t mean he is not a great teacher/dancer. Just because the Chinese didn’t invent Western classical music, doesn’t mean Yo Yo Ma isn’t a great cellist. Just because DJ Krush is Japanese and hardly speaks English, doesn’t mean that he isn’t one of the greatest composers of hip hop the world has ever seen. Just because photography was invented by the French, doesn’t mean that Garry Winogrand isn’t a great photographer.

X works in the (insert any craft here) industry. I just want to scream at X: “Well, (insert any country here) didn’t invent the (insert any craft here) — what makes you think a (insert person of X’s nationality here) such as yourself can excel at it?”

Where is this blind racism coming from?

Let me be frank: I am fully aware of tangueros and tangueras who dance only for a couple of years, and then (to our chagrin) decide they are ready to teach and perform. But a clueless tango grasshopper is clueless no matter what nationality. And these non-Argentine teachers and dancers that X scoffs at, and passionately tells people to avoid, spend half their lives travelling away from home, to be immersed in Argentine culture. They learn the language. They study the dance, and the music. They may dance a different sort of tango that may not be agreeable to some, but it is not difficult to recognize excellence, genius, and emotion, when one is face-to-face with it, in a class, or a milonga. To dismiss artists such as Jennifer Bratt and Ney Melo, or Korey and Mila, just because they are non-Argentines — now, that is a crock of carajo.

This racism of X extends to the milongas and practicas hosted by non-Argentines in our community. I am sure the Argentine hosts and hostesses around the city appreciate X’s patronage, and undying loyalty to the people of Argentina. But it is unnerving to find that X loudly, and verbally discredits and disrepects the events held by others. And yet I see X often frequenting the milongas and practicas maintained and DJed, with painstaking effort, by these same non-Argentines who X despises.

Let me tell you about New York City: Unlike Buenos Aires, Dancing is not a natural state of being over here. I am living in continual fear that there will be no place to tango in my homwtown… That the gestapo city government will shut down these spaces… The city has already restricted the cabaret license into a choke-hold. For example, street photography is dying because the city regulates the use of tripods on the street, and photographers need a permit to photograph in many places where there is open sky — basically almost everywhere. What makes us think that the milongas are safe?

And does X even realise the difficulty of securing places for social dancing in a paranoid city such as this one, where the only way to even step on the beat in the street is to hold a massive peaceful demonstration so huge, that the police will give up and stand by watching?

These non-Argentines are the people who bring us some of the most beloved milongas this city has to offer. Sure, they may not be Argentine… Some may not even be incredible dancers – although some are. Some don’t even teach, some do, and are some of the most revered in the country. And they are responsible for the great effort it takes to keep tango alive in this city — not the revered Argentines who live in Buenos Aires, as much as we love them for their magic, and definitely not people like X who continually complain about the deplorable situation of the “Americans destroying Argentina’s tango.” Perhaps some are, but I know many are not. I’m just thankful there are places to dance, and that is more than one should expect from people who are doing all the work for us, so that people like X can go out and criticize what they’re doing. Sure, they are making some money by doing this, but I don’t know of a single milonga host who makes a living out of hosting milongas.

It’s as if a friend had died, or had moved to another country. No, worse — as if the person I had enoyed talking to and sharing some precious moments with, has never even existed — that the whole friendship was a figment of my imagination.

There is a saying in Argentina, I have learned recently — it is also in a tango called “Niño Bien”:

“Estás mostrando la hilacha.”

Which bascially means: “You are showing your true colors.”

It is heartbreaking when I discover that most everything I knew about a person was a lie, that someone I had once considered a dear friend, I had never known at all. I guess none of this is very new… Friends drift apart all the time, and the people who we think we know show their true characters with time.

But it’s still sickening, nontheless.

Ok. This guy is totally off his bonkers.

And I’ve been gone a long while. I finally realized that I am probably the last one to know that everyone secretly knows that I have a tango blog… And then my fingers stopped typing. The lovely La Tanguera wrote a brilliant post about The Anonymity of the Tango Blogger and the Social Tango Circle. Without the protective shield of my (real or imagined) anonymity, I got squashed and flattened under a big concrete block. It took a long time (3 months!) for me to dig myself out again…

But here I am. And the blog goes on.

So.

Artist: Camille Claudel, “Vals”

When I left you, I was falling in love.

I am still falling in love. And with the same person.

But not without some annoying inconveniences that have, once or twice, melted my wings, and obliged me to fall into things that are not so grand or pleasant as Love.

Tango couple relationships are tricky for many reasons.

There is the chemistry between two people which is not necessarily the tango chemistry between those same two people — the elation when you discover someone with whom a real life connection is nothing short of Alchemy — and the (justified, or unjustified) anxiety that you might not be tango-compatible. It is a reality that not all bodies and personalities are suited to dance with each other. But being lovers, the dream and desire for a perfect tango chemistry is there.

There is the frustration when your tango is advancing (or degenerating) at different levels. It is disconcerting when the lover’s embrace is suddenly uncomfortable in the dance, and you don’t know why. Perhaps one hasn’t been dancing as frequently… perhaps the other was luckier to have been dancing with better followers, or more experienced leaders. The embrace changes all the time, and it is sad when it happens between regular partners… it is more so when it happens between lovers.

There is also the physical intimacy shared with others, and the resulting jealousy. This animal sentiment is easily overcome cerebrally, but it is there. And if special time with the beloved is sacrificed for a night of tango, it is even more infuriating due to the fact that, well, the lover is not only doing something else that is seemingly more desirable to him or her, but that something else involves embracing another man or woman at a physical and emotional proximity more intimate than, oh, say, any social activity that doesn’t involve sex or Spin the Bottle.

There is the delicate balance of Time… time spent together. There is work, and sleep, and much needed solitude. And naturally, being a tango couple, dancing together. And there is also much needed non-tango time, essential between lovers. Something must be sacrificed, and it is easy to feel like one is cornered into convenience — the dreaded limbo of inbetween milongas. No lover wants to be pushed aside, especially not for tango.

There is the fear that familiarity breeds contempt. In a perfect universe, a tango couple will experience a connection with the kind of depth that only falling in love, being in love, and lots and lots of making love, can reach. And with time, ofcourse — the sexual tension, the rush of surprise in an unfamiliar embrace, the sense of excitment into immediate intimacy and communication with an unknown, and the curiosity and pleasure in a new body, all having evaporated into post-coital zen — you would hope to reach a “different” kind of connection.

But this is rarely the case. It takes awareness for a couple to be able to reach this place of Tango Never Never Land. And no one wants to be taken for granted, even but for a moment…

My Lover and I have experienced a few, not all, of the above. And so far, I think we’ve been lucky…

Last night, after a giggly drink with some (non-tango) friends, I decided to chance upon a milonga, alone. So I grabbed my shoes and headed over to a place I haven’t danced in, in a very long time.

Nevermind the beginners who hurt my arm and back, or the crazies bumping into each other to get ahead in the line of dance. I had a warm warm hug and a lovely short chat with two beautiful tangueras I have missed seeing out. I danced with this one guy I haven’t danced with in weeks, and when my heel got caught on his pants, he made me laugh by telling me a hilarious idea for a cartoon strip that involved a woman gleefully running her stiletto heels through a pencil sharpener. Later, he sat down next to me and told me about the ingenious little kaleidoscopes he’s been making at home.

And I had one lovely tanda with a man I had never danced with before. A tall, much older gentleman, with a smooth walk, and soft sad eyes. After all the horrible tandas that night, I sighed with relief, and melted into his beautiful embrace.

During the walk back home, I was missing my Lover (it was a special night for us), but he was far away. I breathed in the balmy air prescient of Spring, and thought of him. And drifted off to Never Never Land.