Who doesn’t love a dance party? Especially if the other participants agree that YOU are the best dancer? But wait… aren’t I in Africa, land of people who dance in their wombs and who couldn’t do anything out of rhythm if they tried? And isn’t this ME, we’re talking about, not someone who, in fact, CAN dance?
In my Thies home stay, I observed many toddlers with better rhythm than most adults I know. Of course, these city households boogied against a background of African and American R&B from radios, TVs, and cell phones. The toddlers got plenty of practice time and were encouraged by all the family members around them who also had nothing else to do.
Sadly, life is very different in the village. We’re still a part of Senegal and West Africa, of course, where dance is deeply ingrained in the culture. But my villagers don’t live the same kind of life as my Thies family. They work and farm all day, exhausted by the end, only able to sit in the dark and talk quietly to each other and the stars, before getting up at dawn to do it again. There are few phones and radios, no TVs, and not even many drums. We dance at weddings and baptisms—briefly.
The day after Tabaski, my women’s club organized time to meet, a radio to borrow, money for batteries, and time to cook the vegetables I brought. We all wore our matching complets. I.e. we had a party.
The complets were actually the reason for the group’s existence. Tired of wishing wistfully every Tabaski that they had a new outfit, the women formed a club that met weekly. Dues were about 10 cents and over the course of the year, amounted to enough for a complet for each member, cut from the same fabric. My sister-mom is president and Mariama is the treasurer who kept the money (since she’s literate).
The women bubbled over with excitement for their NEW clothes. I surprised myself with how happy I was to match everyone. Of course I still stood out, but at least I was the same in One respect! I was less happy when my pagne fell down in the middle of the village, but luckily my village is not exactly hopping and Diardi tied it back up in a flash. (Haha! Flash…)
On actual Tabaski, the women were too busy cooking and running around working to put on their prized clothes until just before dusk. I was mostly busy painting henna on 20 peoples’ hands. When we finally had them on, the only place to go was to a soccer game, a 20 minute hike away. The walk was slightly treacherous and lit only by moonlight. As I picked my way on stepping stones in the river, I found it sadly humorous that this was the party.
The night was just as uneventful. Whereas the national tradition is to get down with yo bad self until the roosters crow (the cows are already home), my people were just tired, cold (COLD SEASON!), and ready for bed. They had the requisite primary school building party, but barely any kids could afford the admission fee of pennies. It was like going to bed at 8:30 on New Year’s Eve.
Back to the day after. This group of women is comprised of women around my age (18-30). All of them are married with multiple children. I’m not going to succumb to the pressure of the Peace Corps experience and gush about the connections of our sister souls, blah, blah. But it is true that these are some excellent women who make me genuinely happy every time I see them. They are sweet, and proud to have me in the group without turning me into some kind of mascot (“look, we’ve got the toubab!”) They are important to me, but I can’t pretend to understand their worlds to the deepest levels of intimacy. If I had been born and raised here, these women would be my very best friends. But for now, just recognizing that is enough.
So we’re all dressed up literally in our best. This already depresses me, in a childish way. I’ve always dreaded that dejection you get from removing your 8th grade dance dress (etc.) at the end of the day. That was it? It’s over? Where’d it go?
To make matters worse, they are all passing around a tiny broken shard of mirror, one tube of lip gloss, and one eyebrow pencil—which doubles as ill-advised lip-liner. They look like they’re playing dress-up. To go where? Under the other mango tree, 15 feet away, to look into the same faces that surround them now. I wanted to run away and cry.
Instead, I cringe at the dance party portion. It would definitely fit the LAME label in the states.I imagined trying to convince my friends at home to do this. They might play along for a minute, straining laughs, and rolling their eyes, but finally suggest we do something ACTUALLY fun. For these women who are my best friends in another life, this is the best part of the Best Day of the Year. THIS. IS. IT.
I fought the urge to run. I didn’t want to dance at first because a bunch of villagers including teenage boys had collected, ready for a break in my RA-like image. But as I felt bad for the sad little spectacle, I knew I had to do my part. Sure, I could ignore it and look forward instead to the comparatively glamorous gatherings in the bars and clubs of my future—that don’t make me want to weep… But I had to do my part here. Despite the usual indifference to my toubab-ness that I usually enjoy from the women, I knew Toubab Dancing would attract everyone’s undivided attention. But I considered my dignity and comfort sacrifices for these lovely women who deserve so so so much more.
The women had been shuffle-dancing, without heart, in a sore, overworked-body way. That is not how a 20-something year old body should be! That was the first difference between my dancing and theirs.
I am not a skilled dancer. My strengths are that I’m not afraid to be a little “out there,” and that I get bored quickly of doing the same small movements most people do. Still, make no mistake, I’m far from talented. On this occasion, I felt a knew sense of abandon in knowing I had no choice but to be the ridiculous center of attention. Encouraged by shouts and claps, I lost myself in thought. I imagined my movements were like the henna I’d been drawing non-stop: repeated circles, stripes, curlicues, embellishments… Once I realized I didn’t even know how long I’d been in the middle of a clapping circle, I couldn’t even attempt to blend in. I kept forgetting myself, because I never realized how inherently sexual mindless American dance moves are. Very different from the tired village woman shuffle! I kept thinking, “Oops!” when I’d lapse and elicit another shout.
Embarrassed at this point, I decided to play it safe by copying exactly what the other women were doing so I wouldn’t be inappropriate anymore. It didn’t seem that hard until a new girl joined and was encouraged to do the very same move I’d been trying to copy: “Dance like Hadiatou!” Haha! Ooops…
While obviously flattering, this attention only broke my heart more. These women are African! Why are they copying me? What’s wrong with this picture? But it makes sense if you compare our lives rather than our genes. Compared to the few occasions I’ve had to dance in the village, I’ve had numerous chances in America. This is the same reason I’m the henna artist here—no one else around had the liberty to waste entire forests of drawing paper in their childhoods.
Once I felt I’d made my support of the party known enough so that I could leave, I thanked everyone and said goodbye. But I wasn’t leaving, I said, until every woman and onlooker got up and danced together. A couple groaned protests, “But I can’t dance! You can, but I can’t!” Once they were up and I danced more ridiculously, they were grinning. They shuffled, clapped, danced the Hadiatou, and smiled smiles worthy of the Best Day of the Year.
When I left them like that, I was smiling too.
