La Nuit Blanche

I don’t usually like dancing tango to music that is not tango music.

(Actually, I hate it).

But I want to dance tango to this one, though… :-D

by Bebe

[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.

So…………

We were walking in an abandonned warehouse district somewhere in New York, our arms were swinging, naked shoulders arched under the moonlight, in black suspenders discreetly suspending over black shirt, glass necklaces swinging over black corsetted silk, powdered skin, painted lips, yellow lace peeping out of our stockings and mother-of-pearl glove buttons carved into mermaids. These tiny sartorial details were in tribute to a bygone era of elegance and glamour, our glistening smiles in anticipation of some absinthe and burlesque and live jazz — a few magic hours of overall general fabulousness, done the Gatsby way.

We got to the Secret Spot ’round about midnight, but it turned out it wasn’t so secret anymore. There were half a dozen police cars with their stupid, stupid circling lights, and cops walking in and out of the rusted red door, and a fire engine. Yes, a fire engine. I mean, Geez Louise. It’s not like we were planning a pyrotechnic murder or anything.

There were bewildered looks on disappointed faces standing here and there on the sidewalks. I saw other guests walking towards that red door, seeing the stupid circling lights, stopping dead in their tracks like in a 1920’s dressed up version of Simon Says, slowly backtracking like Warner Brothers cartoon characters, and then slinking away, pretending they were not looking for that naughty party with the cards and the smoking and the drinking and the naked ladies on stage.

Thankfully, one of us knew about another such secret party happening in another part of town, this one with live tango music! So we headed there, phooey to the live jazz, swinging ain’t our thing, anyways. When we arrived, no thanks to your’s truly, who forgot to bring her I.D., we never got in. So then we checked the clock, but all the milongas were over by then. Then a desperate search around town for an open liquor store ensued, but in vain, they were all closed. Then I had to really really go to the bathroom, so we cut everything short, and we all went home. I hobbled back up the stairs in my 4 inch heels, and undressed out of my fabulous outfit that, sadly, was never meant to be seen.

Urgh.

For next time, we promised each other we’ll get there early, before the authorities arrive to smash it up.

I sipped down a glass of precious elderflower liqueur, the Lover helped me unclasp out of my necklaces, then whispered a lullaby in bed and held my nakedness to sleep. All’s well that ends well, I believe.

(Serves me right for ditching the milongas!)

Source: Top Secret

This is where I’ll be tonight. I’ll be doing something different, in the dark wilderness of non-tangoland, and I am actually excited to be doing something that does not take place inside a dance studio.

I’ll be smoking indoors holding a cigarette holder made of yellow enamel. Strings of glass necklaces will be clicking against each other as I reach over for a vial of radioactive absinthe. Silk brushing against my legs, and a thin wispy black lace mask floating around my smokey eyes. Burlesque on stage revealing bits and pieces of pale glistening skin. Live jazz and drunken laughter. Smeared lipstick. The intoxicating possibility of the authorities shutting us down ’round about midnight…

Decadent?  Yes!  It’ll get messy, and it sounds just a bit grotesque, but this is New York, baby, and it’s a speakeasy, and that makes it fabulous. And I’ll knock ‘em dead with my Comme Il Fauts. ;)

Now, it’d be just perfect if they had a bandoneon, and we could all dance tango…

(Just kidding).

p.s. …some tango maybe afterwards…??

The only one that matters is you, my sweet.

And the happiness you know is yours to take. :)

p.s. When you visit me, I am going to ducktape you to the couch and force you through this cheesy-ass movie. I will place a bucket by your feet in case you throw up, hehe.

Artist: Gustav Klimt, “The Kiss”

I must be absolutely insane, to let something like this happen.

When he kissed me, I felt like the phoenix bursting into flames.

(He is a very good kisser.)

I can’t stop thinking about him.

(It is very inconvenient.)

I wonder what this rebirth will do to my tango.

And no, I am not at all drunk.

(Unless that cinnamon orange spice tea at the coffeeshop wasn’t virgin.)

Buona notte.

P.S. 3:47pm: I woke up this afternoon with 8 mosquito bites on my face. I look like a pepperoni pizza. Autumn mosquitoes are the worst… I guess I won’t be seeing this fabulous kisser for a few days.

and her lovely kerchiefs…

I went to the opening of a gay-friendly milonga earlier tonight.

I went with the hopes that this milonga would have a great vibe… Other gay parties I’ve been to were amazing fun. But I guess there is not much of a gay community within the tango world… Very few people showed up. At the very least, I would have thought male followers and female leaders would show up, so they could dance without second-guessing the codigos. Straight dancers are totally welcome at this milonga… I just think everyone got intimidated, because they thought it was a gay-only thing. There were some same-sex couples, but many more man-woman pairings, and everyone asked to dance with everyone.

It was different from the traditional codigo and tango that I have grown to love. In a sense, the freedom felt liberating. The men didn’t assume I was a follower. A flat “No, thank you” to their invitations were taken fairly graciously. In a way, I felt as if this was as it should be. Whether it be at a traditional milonga, or a gay-friendly one, it is a woman’s prerogative to accept or decline dances without giving explanations, and she deserves to have her answer taken graciously. It’s sad that right now, in New York City, the tango community does not fully understand this, and women are always in fear of a man’s attitude ruining her night every time she declines a dance.

I, myself, am straight, but I was hoping to get some good tandas with women, or gay men. Sometimes, for straight women, it’s so nice just to be able to hang out with people with whom sexual tension is not an issue. If you are a woman, and young, and sort of half-pretty, then you become the recipient of all sorts of disgusting behavior… And at times, I just want to take a break from all the testosterone, if you know what I mean.

I half-suspect, though, that the real reason why people didn’t show up was because they didn’t want to be labelled as homosexual. And to be completely honest, the thought did cross my mind, too. There were photographers there. G. (a very sweet and funny woman I met there) and I were one of only two women couples on the floor during the first tanda, and I think we got our picture taken. If those pictures are published somewhere, I can imagine lots of people thinking I am gay. Which is just as well, because I am not looking to have any kind of relationship off the dancefloor. Maybe it will even keep some monsters at bay…

I got to dance with the DJ, and a couple other women, and the tandas were excellent. G. must be one of the most elegant leaders I have ever danced with, male or female. I felt absolutely gorgeous dancing with her. It was as if she danced for me, just for me, and her only concern was to make me look like Geraldine Rojas (yeah, fat chance, but still!). Embellishments were made up on the spot, and my feet fluttered joyously like butterflies, my body moved languidly like liquid gold. Amazing, what happens, when a leader, male or female, dances on the beat, listens to the melody, and is concerned about the follower’s balance and timing needed to round off and collect. I really think the best leaders are those who know the music, and know how to follow.

An interesting thing occurred while I was dancing with her: An older man with a big beer belly yelled out as we passed him:

“Yeah, maybe I’ll let you lead me next time! Get real…!”

WTF?? Um, hello?? Isn’t this milonga the one place where you shouldn’t be bothered by same-sex dances? This man’s ignorance and crudeness was just unbelieveable to me. If anyone sees an older Caucasian man in his 50s, about 5′11″, with a beer belly, glasses, fluffy graying sideburns, and (usually) a Hawaiian or Cowboy shirt, avoid him at all costs. Not only does he dance the Argentine tango as if it were the Polka, but he is one of the grossest men I have ever encountered. I was tempted to give him the finger as we passed him in the line of dance, but instead, closed my eyes and tried to reconnect with G. Unfortunately, the connection had been lost when the Aging Elvis had shouted at us. Hats off to mission accomplished, asshole.

I think I was still feeling a little fragile from Friday night, so I found myself declining all dance invitations from men. And, after encountering the Aging Elvis (who, incidentally, asked me for a dance after G. went home, telling me he “could do better than a woman”), all thoughts of accepting unknown male invitations vaporized into thin air.

On a positive note, the live orchestra was excellent, and the scheduled performances were superbe. An award-winning professional dancer I am acquainted with, Christian Baerens (he was a finalist at Blackpool, for those of you into International Latin), danced a Tango-Paso-Doble with his (female) partner, and it was one of the most beautiful, passionate shows I have ever seen. I couldn’t close my mouth, the combination was really brilliant. Also two men danced a Cha-Cha-Rhumba, and it was absolutely fantastic. I really wish there was a huge crowd to see these men dance… They should really be on stage.

I think I might go back next month. It’s getting too chilly for the South Street Seaport milonga, and Session 73 is located in a part of Manhattan that would put me in a straight-jacket. Plus, the floor at this studio is to die for.

And with that, ladies and gentlemen, goodnight.

8:30pm, I walked out on my 24th hour mark, in search of a pack of ciggies.

Deli1 was closing down early for Labor Day, and had just locked its gate.

Deli2 asked for my I.D., which I hadn’t brought with me.

Deli3 also asked for my I.D.

Deli4 didn’t have my brand of ciggies.

I was getting pissed. Thought about arguing with the deli owners, but thought better of it. Thought about buying a pack of a different brand, but thought better of that, too.

Walked back to my apartment, sans ciggies, twitching like Evil Maria in Fritz Lang’s Metropolis. Something up there was trying to tell me something.

Upon coming back home, I got a comment from tangobaby about saving my cigarette money for shoes and a trip to B.A. I sat down and calculated exactly how much I spend on cigarettes in a year. I had never done this before. The results were staggering.

At US$8 a pack, smoking one pack a day, it came out to a grand total of:

US$ 2,920

= 2,143 euros
= 1,446 British pounds
= 338,544 Japanese yen
= 9,219 Argentine pesos, a year.

Which is the equivalent of:

292 milongas in New York.

278 films at the cinema.

265 bottles of my favorite drink.

32 private tango lessons.

16 pairs of Comme Il Faut heels.

8 Tango festivals.

5 iPhones for 5 girlfriends’ birthdays.

2 weeks in Buenos Aires, including airfare, plus infinite cups of cafe con leche and media lunas.

1 week in Paris, including airfare, a toothbrush, and umbrella.

1 Mamiya 7II medium format rangefinder camera with 80mm f4.0 lens, and 125 rolls of 120mm film, which is the equivalent of 1,250 pictures.

And oh yes… any one of the above, and:

Pink lungs.

I wanted to slap myself.

What is ironic is that I am curbing one addiction to make way for the longevity of another.

I just realised I’ve been tapping my foot beneath my desk, the entire time I was writing this entry.

Must print out this list and tape it to my front door and wallet.

Maybe I should go to Luna tonight.

Like, right now.

Godard:

Tou bi or not tou bi
contre votre poitrine
it iz ze question.

The last group class I ever attended, I danced with a man who jut his chin in the direction of a pretty Asian woman in the class and asked, “Do you think she’s Japanese or Korean?”

I ignored his question and told him he was crushing my hand to a pulp. He loosened his pinchers, and then asked again, “So, what do you think? Japanese or Korean?”

I told him to go ask her himself, as I really didn’t care. I then told him to stop crushing my hand again.

He then said, “I think she’s a Jap. She’s too skinny to be Korean. Koreans are plump with round faces.”

That was it. I calmly put my arms to my sides, told him he is a racist misogynist pig, and to shut the fuck up and just dance. With someone else. I kept a mental note of his face and thick glasses, so I could avoid him next time.

I saw that man again at practica this past weekend. He walked up to me as I was changing my shoes, and stood there, looking at me. He didn’t even ask if I would dance. He just stood there and guarded me from other men, giving them the hairy eyeball and trying to look as if the next dance belonged to him.

I gave him a poisonous look, and asked him to get out of my view of the floor. “Would you like to dance?” he asked anyway, thinking he can get me to say “yes” by persistence, or making me feel bad. Nope, didn’t work.

“NO.”

He slunk away, dejected. But only after he gave me the evil eye.

I try not to be judgemental. For all I know, this man may have a very kind soul, maybe he is a loving grandpa, maybe he doesn’t know any better, maybe it was the way he was raised. Or maybe he has brain damage.

But one sour experience with a man will prevent me from ever wanting to dance with him again, let alone have him touch me. I have absolutely no patience for ignorance. I can be forgiving, and understanding, but I never forget.

Am I turning into a diva?

A similiar thing happened to me last week at another practica. There is a man with a nice lead, who I like dancing with. I ran into him and his wife arguing, as I came up the stairs. He told her to stop being “so bitchy”. When he entered the practica, I recoiled from his “hello”, and avoided him that day.

We all have our bad moments. We all have arguments with boyfriends, husbands, family. We all swear and curse when we get angry. We’re all stressed from work.

But I just couldn’t get myself to dance with a man who had just called his wife “a bitch.”

Am I being too sensitive?

I can work with jerks. I can pay the deli-man for my sandwich, even if he is a jerk. I can handle waiters who are jerks. I expect most cab drivers to be jerks. But dancing with a jerk? I just can’t do it. Not after I’ve seen him be a jerk.

No.

I counted 26 mosquito bites on my legs. 11 on one, 15 on the other. Needless to say, I couldn’t shave my legs this morning. It’s hard to be optimistic with 26 mosquito bites and stubbly legs.

Or maybe I’m just depressed because I just realised it’s my birthday today.

Yay.