Dance! Dance! My Ballroom Evolution

By Aelan Lee

My hand felt as if it might melt a hole in my dance partner's shirt from all the hot sweat I was producing. Logically, I knew she wouldn't mind; she was used to all the sweat and stink and puffs of bad breath that came from partners less hygienic than I. Yet the fear remained that I was the worst of them all. I mean, would she be brave enough to tell me? Probably. But that's beside the point. Ballroom dancing is both an art, a sport, and a team game. You have to be meticulously aware of not only your own body, but also that of your dance partner. Every tensing muscle or nudge could mean one of hundreds of things. Your bodies must be in tandem. Your legs must move through your partner’s in sync, your arms must connect with theirs in a firm but gentle grip, and your navels must always face each other. If you are well prepared, you and your partner will know each other well enough to distinguish what anything means.

Unfortunately for me, my luck with dance partners is trash.

Though it’s not through any fault of my own, I have never had the same dance partner for longer than a semester. In my sophomore year, I had three in total: one bowed out due to medical troubles, another quit, and the third was only temporary because of a prior commitment to another partner. And now, in the second semester of my junior year, I have yet again gone through three partners: my first could not attend the competition, the second never showed up to practices, and my third will be graduating in a few weeks’ time. But, at the very least, my wonderful third dance partner made it through competition with me.

Everything leads up to competition. Where it is and who it's hosted by changes every year—mostly because we, as a club, have inconsistent scheduling. Those who choose to attend spend the entire semester preparing. We find our partners, learn new moves, perfect our technique, and dance the night away every Wednesday. All of this work was leading to one momentous occasion: competition. To us ballroom dancers, placing at competition is the world. It means our effort—the pain of holding our arms in frame, the sweat from practically sprinting around the dance floor, and the stress of performing at our peak—has been noticed. 

It wasn’t always so stressful or competitive. In fact, for me, it started rather casually. In my sophomore year of college, I had yet to stick to an extracurricular; I stopped attending various clubs mostly out of disinterest. But it was a new year, and I wanted to find something that I was passionate about. Thus, to the activities fair I went. It showcased every club you could think of, and probably more. But through the crowd, I saw something flash in the sunlight. I squinted my eyes and saw the most gorgeous dress, something right out of a fairy-tale ball; it was sequined and shimmering with glitter, the red cloth bright and loud amongst the sea of blue tables. It was completely out of place, but that only made me want to know more.

As I slowly approached—wary like a cat perceiving strangers in their home—I was greeted by the club president, whom I knew tangentially. They talked to me about the ballroom dance club: how the dress I spotted was for competition, the different dances they practiced, and when the lessons took place. I was completely enamored. Everything about it sounded so glamorous, yet also like so much work. There was apparently a lot to ballroom dancing that I hadn’t learned during my own brief time doing it.

My history with ballroom dancing goes back to the terrible days of elementary school. Though both my memory and that of my friends failed to recall the exact year we started, it could have been as early as fifth grade. Ballroom dancing is somewhat of a tradition in my hometown, a rite of passage, if you will. The young and bright-eyed children of our small town gather in the women's club—a small colonial house on the main street, right next to the town hall and library. It is a rickety place, where the heat squeezes through the creaky wood of the second floor and turns the entire level into a humid cesspit, especially when thirty preteens are cramped shoulder to shoulder on the dance floor.

We would sit on barely cushioned chairs along the edge of the room, waiting for the torture to start. The girls would titter with the newest gossip, ponder over the cutest boy to dance with, and exchange poorly concealed frowns when one of the teachers told them to cross their ankles, not their legs. The boys, on the other hand, sat stoically. This whole song and dance—pun intended—must have been nerve-wracking for them. I had previously imagined that they were like male birds, dancing to impress the girls of the class. In my mind, they were all puffing their chests and flexing their arms to catch our coy gazes. Now I see they were just as eager to get it over with as we were.

Mr. Trudeau was our primary teacher, an intimidating but kind man who commanded the room with his booming voice. He would greet us every lesson with a hearty "Good evening, students!" and, obediently, we would respond back to him, "Good evening, Mr. Trudeau!" albeit with far less enthusiasm. Mr. Trudeau was assisted by an older woman, whose name escapes me, though nothing can make me forget her dour frown and stern voice when she scolded us for one reason or another; sometimes our posture was too slouched, or our hands were not holding our partner correctly. The worst was when she found us hiding by the water fountain—an old thing tucked away in the corner with rust eating up the sides—and scolded us harshly and forced us to disperse.

The classes ran very traditionally. There was no choice in what role you played; the boys led, the girls followed, and that was that. The boys were also the ones to choose their dance partner, and, because there were always more girls than boys, at least one girl would always be left out. This was the ultimate test in my mind. If I wasn't chosen, I must have been the ugliest girl there. That was a terrible feeling that gnawed at my insides—a clear sign of the anxiety diagnosis to come. It would be an unimaginable embarrassment, and yet, I was also always annoyed when someone asked me to dance. I would have much rather stood awkwardly next to the water fountain than danced with a sweaty boy who smelled far too strongly of his father’s cologne. 

At the very least, I had my friends to help me through the worst of the lessons. There were seven or eight of us who were already well acquainted through school or extracurriculars, which made the whole thing much more bearable. Truthfully, the most interesting parts of middle school ballroom were the before- and after-parties hosted by one of our little group members. Each week, our respective parents would prepare snacks and drinks for us to consume while we babbled about everything and nothing at all. Despite having vivid memories of these get-togethers, I retained next to nothing learned during the lessons themselves—my apologies Mr. Trudeau. The few sticking points include: how to properly shake hands, make eye contact while doing so, and speak loudly when greeting. At least these tips have been helpful in job interviews; I’m always sure to have a strong grip rather than a dead fish when greeting someone.

Whenever I use these few skills learned in the ballroom of the past—nearly a decade later—I find myself looking back on my previous experience with a sense of fondness. There is no nostalgia—no wish to go back to the way things were, instead of how they are—but certainly a feeling of gratitude towards who I once was. She may have been too loud, a bit strange, and more than a little anxious, but the girl I used to be grew into who I am now. She was just happy to be around her friends, despite the awkward atmosphere that tended to envelop us during the actual dancing. Now, as an older and more mature version of myself, I have (mostly) moved past my anxiety over dancing with someone new. Not to mention, I can actually dance the part I want now, instead of being a follower to a smelly boy.

Perhaps it says something about myself, that for all my fear of being in control, in college I decided to dance the leader role. This part—formerly known as "the male role"—requires quick thinking and planned out decisions. The competition floor is one big game of chess; the leader's job is to think five steps ahead in order to win. While sweeping around the floor, you must be on the constant lookout for obstacles and opportunities alike. Where are the judges standing? How can I get around this couple? When is the best time to perform our best figure? All of these thoughts spin around my head in a whirl when I’m dancing; frequently, at the most pivotal junction—during competition—I find myself falling flat. But this time, during the spring competition of my junior year, I was determined to win.

There is something incredibly nerve-wracking about competition day. This semester was especially anxiety-inducing; we were going to one of the most competitive competitions in New England, held at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. MIT took its competition very seriously. So seriously, in fact, that it spanned two days, rather than the usual one. Thankfully, because most of the RWU dancers are in the same level of ballroom, we only had to attend the second day. But because of the extra day of preparation, I was left shaking in anticipation for longer. I was burning hot with the desire to win, yet cold with dread at the same time.

On Sunday, April 27th, I woke up at 5:10 a.m. sharp. I needed ample time to get ready; there was much to do, and what felt like little time to prepare. I had already laid out my outfit for the day. I repped the RWU sweatpants and ballroom club jacket, hiding a loose shirt that would be easy to get out of while wearing a full face of makeup and done-up hair; I also wore my nude tights and safety shorts—because modesty is important, even when wearing the most outrageously revealing ballroom dress. Clothing donned, I stared down my own reflection in the mirror. My eyes were slightly sunken from the lack of sleep I got, red and irritated after I attempted to rub the drowsiness from them. I blinked. My reflection blinked back. It was time to get to work.

My dance partner and I had agreed on a very specific aesthetic. Ordinarily, ballroom makeup is demure, if colorful; it is elegant and enhancing, not concealing. We decided to ignore all established conventions and do something no one else had even thought of doing. White primer paled my already fair skin, and was quickly followed by blotting white concealer all over with a makeup sponge. Soon enough, my face was a snowy landscape. Then went on the brow pencil, darkening and sharpening my eyebrows into deadly onyx points. Eyeshadow was packed onto the lids of my eyes and highs of my cheekbones, the black becoming deeper with every punch of the brush. And then the eyeliner. Quick strokes with the pen outlined a menacing shape, nearly touching my brows with how far it stretched. The final touch was a black lipstick, pointing my cupid's bow to twin peaks. The makeup was done. I had succeeded in the first step of my transformation.

Quickly and quietly, so as not to wake any of my roommates, I packed the last of my items away into my tote bag and scurried out the door. The journey to New Res was short and cold, the breeze cutting through my light layers and causing the hair of my arms to stand in salute. It was here where my hair would be done by my friend and fellow dancer. They swiftly let me into the building, ushered me into their dorm, and began the second challenge. Cementing my hair in place would be a difficult process. Ballroom hair must be secure, so stiff and solid is the way to go, and the best way to achieve the desired results is to use hair gel that will dry and turn your hair into a plastic helmet. The process is simple: comb through the hair with the gel, pull it into the tightest possible bun, and coat with more gel. My friend has mastered the art of doing my ballroom hair, despite how frequently my hair changes in color and style. With the bun in place, I was left to finish the final touches. It was time to conquer the final beast: my bangs.

Ballroom is famous for the swooping waves that decorate dancers' heads, not dissimilar to the hairstyles flappers would wear in the 1920s. The finger wave is an art, and by God, I was going to attempt it. A few days previous, I had practiced what I would be doing with my curtain bangs. However, because no tutorial on the internet seemed to teach my hairstyle, I had to improvise. I coated the strands of my hair with liberal amounts of gel, and set to work positioning them into curls that would hopefully frame my face. It was a race against the clock to perfect the look before the gel dried. I had to push and pull and pinch the hair just right, while also slicking down any flyaways. But finally, finally, I had a product I was happy with.

There was no time to keep fiddling with my hair; we had to get going to the parking garage. Twelve dancers piled into two vans, shoving all of our personal belongings and expensive dresses into the trunks, and then we were zooming off to Cambridge. The drive itself was quiet, myself playing navigator to my friend who was driving, while others napped or listened to their own music. I did accidentally lead us past the parking garage—which the other van made fun of us for—but soon enough we were out on the streets, following all the other dancers from various famous universities to the prophesied Rockwell Cage.

It turned out to be a gymnasium. At least it was a step up from the previous competition I had gone to, which was in a middle school gym—even though it was hosted by Northeastern—so a college gym wasn't all bad. The competition staff ushered us all through two sets of double doors like shepherds herding their flock into a pen. The gymnasium itself was divided in two; there was a prep section filled with folding tables, and then the actual dance floor lined with bleachers for audience members. Everything seemed to have red accents; the walls, the banners, the dividers, the stands, all of it seemed to be blood-soaked. It was unsettling, though perhaps that was just the nerves speaking.

After claiming our tables, it became something of a waiting game. Only one couple in our club would be competing in the Latin dances, but that left the rest of us with very little to do other than cheer them on and take pictures. We arrived at exactly 9:00 a.m. and most of us wouldn't start dancing until 12:45 p.m., when Rhythm began. Despite my anxiety continuing to eat away at my insides like a hideous parasite, I followed my fellows to the bleachers. We watched couples thunder across the dance floor during the Paso Doble, stomping and stamping their feet like bulls, dresses flaring with every sharp turn and dramatic twist. As we clapped and hollered out the numbers of our favorite couples, there were both strained and easy smiles in reaction.

Time ticked by with every beat of the music, synchronous with my racing heart. One by one, my fellow club members dispersed to change into their Rhythm outfits. I followed in a daze, having an almost out-of-body experience. Robotically, I changed into my dress, an ebony crushed velvet number with silver rhinestones and dazzling tassels. I recited the figures in my head for the dances: cha-cha, rumba, and swing. Crossovers, underarm turns, peekaboo, sugar push, loop turn into patty-cake into Turkish twist. I had to remember to flare my arms just right, step exactly in time, hold my head high. But, most importantly, I had to have fun.

I lined up with my partner in the on-deck area, and prepared to dance my heart out.

Aelan Lee, a Roger Williams University senior, is an English Literature and Creative Writing double major, with a minor in Theatre. Hailing from Acton, Massachusetts, they have been an avid writer since fourth grade when they discovered that they could write literally anything. Aelan has had a poetry piece displayed in the Rogers Free Library in Bristol, Rhode Island and participated in the Bermont Fellowship twice. They would like to thank the RWU ballroom dance club for the inspiration and encouragement.