Gracefully Abroad: The Tango
By Grace Carballo ‘17
Some of my tango partners might protest to the title of this blog citing their sore toes from me stepping on them as evidence to the contrary, but I was blessed with a name that can be turned very smoothly into a modifier (adjective OR adverb, how versatile!) and who can blame me for playing the cards I was dealt?
This will be the first in a series of posts during my time abroad this semester in Buenos Aires, Argentina and if there is one theme that holds true to all of them it is probably that I don’t necessarily live up to the name but “Well-Meaning” or “Good Effort” weren’t popular for girls when I was born way back in 1994.
The tango, as I learned in my Spanish class at Universidad de San Andrés last week, was actually a dance before it was a music genre, which is perplexing but interesting, like those who suggest the egg came before the chicken, but actually this fact is true.
En La Boca, a neighborhood in Buenos Aires, now very popular amongst the tourists for its beautiful, colorful houses, was a neighborhood of immigrants, and where the tango came to life. In the early beginnings of tango, it was danced by two men, which is not surprising because the patriarchy is a tale much older than tango.
Before attending this class, everything I knew about tango was from movies (I considered bringing a rose to hold between my teeth) and my friend Alexi who studied in BsA last semester and left the city leaving and breathing tango. He hopes to “tanganalyze” (tango-analyze) me when I return because apparently you can tell a lot about a person, their insecurities and ambitions, after dancing the tango with them. Stay tuned for his findings circa late-July 2016, although there’s a good chance I won’t like what he has to say.
After attending this class, I understand how the tango consumed him so that he could non-sarcastically look me in the eye and describe his passion for the dance that for some, defines this city.
In my Spanish class after learning a very brief history of the tango I was ready to give it a go.
“El tango es un pensamiento triste que se baile…Tango is a sad feeling that is danced.” - Enrique Santos Discépoloo
What a productive way to express and maybe even cope with sadness. Dare I say it might even be healthier than journaling, which up until now I’ve always regarded as the ideal use of time when all hope seems lost.
“When you dance tango with someone, you don’t need to know their entire history in order to get a glimpse of their more ‘raw’ self, their human warmth or lack thereof, their ability to listen and participate in a dialogue, their ability to enjoy the music, open themselves emotionally and show their vulnerable side. It’s harder to hide our ‘raw self’ if we are not able to use words to conceal.” - Unknown
This quote I can also attest to. I’ve been wont to fill anything and all silences, especially in uncomfortable situations such as having to find a new tango partner every two songs in your very first lesson in a foreign country. But my friend Alexi warned me in advance, tango is not about talking. Though I’ve talked my way out of and into trouble in the past, tango is about listening, which many a great mind will remind you is twice as important given our ear to mouth ratio.
“La verdadera esencia Argentina está en el tango.”
My Spanish professor explained how tango is the manifestation of Argentine idiosyncrasies. And given that I am here not only to improve my Spanish, but also to immerse myself in and appreciate the complexities of Argentine culture, it seems crucial that I attempt at least once, if not dozens of times, this enchanting dance.
My friends and I arrived at the class late and I would love to blame anyone besides myself, but cannot, because I was the navigator of the night. (A warm, heartfelt thanks to the three kind Argentinian passerbys who collectively pointed us in the right direction). The class was crowded and, per my usual, had more women than men. I missed the initial thirty minutes of instructions but didn’t let that stop me in my quest for greatness.
They say you never forget your first tango partner (I’m sure someone has said it as one point or another in the vast history of tango). Mine was my French housemate named “Malo”, which is allegedly a common name in France but in any Spanish-speaking country literally just means “Bad”. My first dance partner was “Bad”. They always fall for the “Malo” guys, don’t they? There’s really no limit to the fun I could have with this juxtaposition of languages but I had tango to dance.
I was happy to arrive with him because he actually wasn’t that great at it and I was no better. We spent our first song waiting for one of the instructors to come help us and swaying every so often. When the instructor finally arrived, he told me to put my hands on Malo’s chest and close my eyes so as to interpret where he would move and move with him. It’s not necessarily my instinct to follow (except in terms of directions because I still couldn’t tell you where I live on a map and it’s been 2 weeks) and I subconsciously tried to take the lead. Gender is, after all, a social construct, why should the man be the leader and the woman the follower when in fact, both of us are equally inept?
Two songs later and it was time to learn the next step. And worse, we had to change partners. Malo and I are fairly close. We’ve shared the same bathroom (with 6 other people) for the past 2 weeks due to some unfortunate plumbing issues and our friendship is founded on our shared commitment to speak Spanish to one another despite it being far from our mother tongue. But here I was left to dance with a stranger, and Malo was claimed instantaneously by another.
The good news is I know a number of facts about my second tango partner, such as where he is from and where he attends university. The bad news is that I gathered this information by talking throughout the entire next two songs, in between apologies, which is the exact opposite of ideal as I’ve already indicated.
By the next partner change, I was ready- scouting out anyone near me and making eye contact with all eligible in a very non-threatening way. These transition periods felt like waiting to get picked for a team in gym, but different because you weren’t necessarily sure you even wanted to get picked. Watching tango could be my hobby here, instead.
It wasn’t until the second half of the class that I finally understood the draw tango has on people. I thought I was partnerless because all the men were occupied with other women until I locked eyes with an Argentinian girl about my age with 4-5 times my talent. She invited me to dance and obviously I said yes, I was a novice and had hours of practice to log before advancing to “slightly below average”.
I’d moved all of twice before she stopped me. While my other partners had let it slide or perhaps been unable to get a word in edgewise, she called me out for trying to lead instead of follow. Like the instructor, she had me close my eyes, and focus only on listening to the music and feeling her movements. When she moved her right foot forward, I moved my left foot back with her. When she sped up, I matched her tempo. At the risk of sounding sentimental, it was like when you have the perfect ratio of peanut butter to chocolate. Yes, this particular tango, was like a holiday Reese’s. And when the dance ended, this time I was saying “Gracias” instead of “Lo siento.”
With newfound receptive skills, I met my last partner of the evening. We learned from our female instructor that the best way to approach the tango position is to start by hugging your partner. She placed her left hand on her partner’s upper back, his right hand on her lower back, and their opposite hands together in a frame. I did my best to mimic the posture although I’ve been known to cringe at physical touch and up until my 8th grade graduation was widely regarded in my circle of friends as “bad at hugging”. But the beautiful thing about tango is, your past can stay behind you. Unless of course you bring it up to your partner, but by this point I had learned that was not cool to do.
Nicolás smelled very clean and familiar; it’s very possible we bought the same bar of soap at one of the many farmacías, a sign of our tango compatibility no doubt. He lived just 20 minutes away and had been dancing for a several weeks now (Yes, I talked very briefly- old habits die hard), and you could really tell he’d gotten the hang of it.
After a few stumbles on my part and a few bruised toes on his part, we started to move as one. There happened to be a photographer there promoting the new instructors and I kept hoping he was filming us because I really wanted to get my hands on this footage- that’s how confident I was in our tango.
And though I always heed my father’s warning when I travel to “not be gullible nor foolish”, I allowed myself to trust this stranger. With the he end of his ponytail (very smooth-also possible we use the same conditioner) under my firm grasp on his back, we danced forward and backward and he even gave me space in which I later realized I was supposed to do this sort of twist motion with but I just let be. When it came time to change partners for the last round of the class, I made the bold suggestion we just stay together.
If it’s relatively functional, why fix it?
After all is said and done, my first experience with tango will certainly not be my last. I even got the instructor’s business card after the class so I can take another, a classy and mature move if there ever was one. Though they said tango is dancing sadness, my experience was much more like dancing discomfort. At no point during the lesson could I have looked you in the eye and smiled knowingly saying, “This is definitely my comfort zone.”
But I’m not here to be in my comfort zone. I’m here to tango*.
Chau <kisses your cheek leaving a lipstick stain I don’t tell you about>,
Grace Carballo ‘17
*and pass my 4 classes with flying colors & make friends & pick up the Argentine accent & broaden my horizons & be more independent & be able to say I’m a Spanish major without fear of follow-up conversation en español
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