MIDDLE SCHOOL DANCES in the Massachusetts suburbs, circa mid-1990s, were on Friday nights. My friends would all be there at the gym, along with every girl we were crushing on. But not me. While the rest of the seventh grade was getting down to Bon Jovi, TLC, and the “Macarena,” I’d be at home, on the couch, watching The X-Files with my brother. My guy friends would call from the school pay phone to give me a hard time. I’d hear music in the background. Bass. Laughter. It sounded fun. But in the end, I’d always say something like, “You guys know I can’t miss X-Files.” The truth was more complicated. I did love The X Files. But much more so, I was terrified of dancing.
Social scientists claim that we human beings possess eight different intelligences in varying degrees. Some of us have high logical and mathematic intelligence; others excel at music; some have a strong interpersonal, social intelligence; and so on. I was raised by a family of readers and gabbers, so it’s no shock that I developed so-called “linguistic-verbal” intelligence that has led to my becoming a teacher and a writer. And although I loved playing hockey and football as a kid, and working with my hands at the town garage, alas, my least-developed intelligence is what the experts call “bodily-kinesthetic” awareness. Nonexperts would know this by seeing me at my friend’s backyard wedding reception: “Oh, that fool can’t dance.”
I didn’t grow up dancing. I can’t remember my parents ever dancing. We didn’t dance at friends’ houses, or at birthday parties, or at church. My first dance memory is one of horror and sweaty palms: sixth-grade gym class (again, that middle school gym!), when boys were forced to pair up with girls and “learn” to square dance. Like most sane people, I try to avoid pain, both physical and mental, so after the square dance nightmare, I simply planned to go through life without dancing. And for many years, I did a good job. But then my plan hit a major roadblock: I fell in love with a dancer.
My wife, Liz Mulkey, is, in addition to being a fitness and yoga instructor, a dancer and choreographer. People pay her to teach them how to dance, and they pay her to dance. Her bodily-kinesthetic intelligence is off the charts. She is a natural, beautiful mover. I discovered this on our very first date—a group outing to a bar with a DJ and some good speakers—where I knew right away that she’d have nothing to do with a guy who didn’t join her on the dance floor right now. Lucky me, she must’ve been too caught up in the music to notice that I had no clue what I was doing. A few years later, we were married, and I had a choice: I could be that guy who sits out at every wedding, every impromptu kitchen dance party, every time “Sweet Caroline” hits the speakers at Fenway Park. Or I could stand my ass up and give dancing a try.
For the record, I don’t dislike dancing; it just makes me feel anxious, self-conscious, awkward. I’m in my head, wondering, Is this what my legs should be doing? Should I try pumping my arms over my head right now? Jut my hips more? Less? In those fleeting moments when I’m not overthinking, I get it: Dance is amazing. To feel yourself move in (somewhat) synchronicity with the music and a crowd—there must be something ancient baked into our DNA, drawing us to sway with other human beings in close physical proximity. But then I come back to myself and think how I look compared to all the good dancers, primarily the woman directly in front of me, my wife of 10 years. How does Liz do it? What’s going through her head? So one night, driving home after a party in Portland, Maine, I asked her: How do you think about dance?
Dance, to Liz, is something she thinks deeply about in her role as a choreographer in professional, artistic, and educational settings. But it’s also something she seems to feel, and in such a natural, effortless way that she can play around with new choices on the dance floor while also having the mental bandwidth to whisper tips in my ear, and even encouraging groups of total strangers to try the same moves together, as if we’re warming up for a big Broadway number. While I’m anxious about keeping the beat, Liz is choreographing in real time. The more I hear Liz describe it, the more I’ve come to understand that dance is like a language: If you’ve been speaking a language from an early age, you don’t overthink it; you just speak. You are fluent. You can be nimble with words, sayings, sarcasm, and exaggeration. If, on the other hand, you never uttered a syllable of the language until you were forced to take lessons in the sixth grade…
For those of us with low bodily-kinesthetic intelligence, we process each movement in our brains before sending the command to our bodies on the dance floor. It takes time. It’s clunky. Mistakes are many. But a little-known fact is that a happy middle ground exists between being fluent in dance and not speaking a word. Just as we can know enough half-decent Spanish to get around Mexico City without total embarrassment, we can learn a few tips and tricks to have some fun on the dance floor.
And I believe we absolutely should. Because first, dance is good for us as human beings. It’s part of who we are as a species, connecting us to others in what is likely the very first cultural activity that our earliest ancestors enjoyed in community. Dance brings us into close physical contact with those we care about, as well as with total strangers, which might be even more important now, in our epidemic of digital isolation and loneliness.
Second, dance, for many of us, might be more important to our partners than ourselves. By dancing, we are committing to our relationships. We are speaking a language of love. Glancing around at my friend’s wedding reception, I knew I couldn’t be the only guy out there trying hard not to embarrass himself and his date. Dancers like us want to disappear, blend into the crowd, and help give our partners a good time. We might never be fluent in the language of movement, but that doesn’t mean we need to sit out and watch the world groove on without us. So what should we do? Lucky me, I live with a professional dancer; I asked my wife for help.
The first practical tip Liz shared was to keep it simple. “Start by feeling the beat in the center of your chest. Let that vibration travel up your spine. Nod your head back and forth, then let your chest join in.” We’d arrived at a New Year’s Eve dance party two minutes before midnight. Everyone else had been drinking and dancing for hours. A DJ was making the speakers thump with drums and bass. An easy, steady beat. I could feel it in my chest. I could bob my head. I could do this. Easy enough. Liz calls this “home base”—when in doubt, when feeling lost out there, simply start over, and nod to the beat. But I couldn’t nod along forever. What else?
Liz’s second tip is helpful for those moments when you get caught looping the same movement, not sure what to do next. “If you feel yourself getting stuck, maybe you gesture with a hand, or rotate your spine back and forth, letting your shoulders lead. Try on the highs and lows in the music. Leave the beat to follow the melody, the lyrics, or try expressing a particular instrument for a while. Take a second to feel your feet. It can be as simple as stepping from side to side, front to back, as the music moves you.” This felt like a lot of advice at once, but by focusing on one part of the music, I found it really did work. I might sidestep to the drums for a few measures, then switch over to the bass, then the lyrics, and back to the drums. I finally felt myself dancing—until the DJ switched up the track. With the new beat I faltered, returned to overthinking things, and lost the thread. But then I remembered tip number one: home base—bobbing my head, feeling it in my chest, starting over again, simple and fresh.
Liz’s final tip is to look around for inspiration. “Mirror another dancer’s movements that look good or just seem fun.” This turned out to be a great way to ring in the new year with a big group, mimicking not just Liz but also total strangers. I copied (or tried to copy) some from the good dancers, but I also enjoyed moving along to some of the not-so-good dancers—people who simply looked like they were having a great time and didn’t give a shit what others thought.
I’ve accepted that I’ll never be fluent in dance, but I’ve also come to the conclusion that I’d rather stagger through a few difficult sentences than remain mute for life. You might not have a professional dancer nearby to whisper advice into your ear, but hopefully you’ll take some of Liz’s suggestions, start simple, and get your ass out there. See you on the dance floor.
Nick Fuller Googins is a fourth-grade teacher and the author of the upcoming novel, The Great Transition. His writing has appeared in The Los Angeles Times, The Paris Review, The Sun, and elsewhere.
