A Love That Will Never Leave Me

It was a summer of firsts: my first trip to England, the first summer home after a year of college, my first boyfriend, and in a sense, my first love. 

"Chad" and I started dating the day I arrived home from UNC that summer.  He was tall, blond, handsome, smart, and absolutely adored me.  How could a girl ask for more?  The first half of the summer went by in a hazy bliss and I didn’t know enough to wonder if I was missing something.  Together, we envisioned wedding bells and happily-ever-afters.  Then one day, my mother handed me a newspaper clipping.  It advertised an Argentine tango class that took place every Monday night at Patou Bistro near uptown with dancing afterward.  “I thought maybe this would interest you,” she said, “since you seem to enjoy salsa so much at school.” 

Freshman year had indeed been eye-opening where my dancing was concerned.  I went from a world of tap, jazz, and ballet and found myself involved in ballroom with salsa on the side.  I loved the energy in partner dancing, the feeling of togetherness that you cannot find in the solitary dances I grew up with.  I’d never heard of Argentine tango, but I knew I enjoyed ballroom tango, so I figured we could try it out. 

Tango Art by Guillermo (Bill) Temples. passionfortango.com

When Chad and I opened the door to Patou’s that night, it was like stepping into a different world.  I stood fascinated as I watched couples floating by me in a dreamlike trance.  Their torsos and cheeks were pressed together, their legs moved in synchronization – they even breathed as one.  I watched as the women’s legs seemed to stretch for miles behind their hips, balancing only on their toes and leaving three-inch heels hovering above the ground – complete faith that the men they were leaning into would not drop them. 

The place was warm and musky; smoke hung above the nearby bar and the orangey lighting kept the atmosphere close, and embracing.  The music was in a plane of its own.  The melancholy and enticing whine of the accordion accompanied by the bitter-sweet sounds of the Spanish guitar tore a person between the desire to fall in love, or to cry.  In that moment, I chose love. 

I believed Chad to be as spellbound as I was.  After several minutes, the class began, and the music was turned down for the instructor to assemble everyone into lines.  In that first 50 minute class, we learned how to walk.  Yes, walk.  Walking, evenly and with the music, is the basic principle for Argentine tango – but I wanted more.  I wanted to do what I had just witnessed.  To find oneness and sexiness that transcends vulgar and escalates to a heavenly beauty.  This beginner’s class was not either of those things.  I became even more frustrated when I realized Chad was struggling – with walking!  I tried to correct, and he felt ashamed (though I did not realize it at the time), so after the class was over he sat at the bar and I tried out my newfound walking skills with old-timers.  I sucked up every morsel of new knowledge they shared with me like a sponge. 

Dancing came easily to me – it was hard then to realize how fortunate I was, and how difficult it was for someone like Chad who had never danced before.  Every couple songs I’d ask Chard to dance, but in his embarrassment he turned me down and pretended it was no big deal.  He told me he didn’t mind, and I willingly believed him.  Finally, I stopped asking. 

I danced with many different men, making new friends left and right, learning new techniques, and every once in a while, reaching the outer fringe of the oneness I sought. 

It was when I danced with Guillermo that I felt my world truly shift.  He led me with power and gentleness combined.  My feet were taking directions my head had not given them.  My body felt light and graceful, and then all was silent except for the music.  Each heartbeat was a step, and with our chests pressed together, I wasn’t sure anymore where my heartbeat began, and his left off.  My nerves started to ebb.  A long whine on the accordion would indicate a long sweep of my back leg, though I’m not sure how it knew to do that.  But a good tango lead can make your body do things without your permission.  Trust is formed in the span of one dance.  The bond a good leader and follower create together cannot be broken – for the length of that song, you are in love.  And you truly are – with the dance. 

Tango is not a dance to be taken lightly.  It is not a casual pastime.  It is a life; a life of commitment, love, passion, and soul.  That first night, I could not put that concept into words.  I did not know what I had just stumbled into, but I felt a change.  My heart swelled and seemed to overflow.  When I realized it was time to go home, I had to fight tears.  Looking at Chad, anger and jealousy raging behind his blue eyes, I realized what our relationship did not have.  I was not in love with Chad, for in the span of three hours, I had fallen in love with tango, and that felt ten times stronger than the last month and a half spent with my first boyfriend. 

Driving home that night, I was sad.  The elation I felt on the dance floor only heightened the pain I felt now.  Chad was terribly jealous; he didn’t want to dance anymore and he didn’t want me to dance with other men like that ever again.  I knew that was a promise I could not make, and thus I saw the future of our relationship ending – over one night of Argentine tango. 

Five years later, my first true love has still not left me wanting.  I can always find the oneness now, thanks to Guillermo’s teaching.  I feel the music in my core; I can anticipate my partner’s next move before he makes it.  I can mold my body into another’s without feeling awkward and self-conscious and my feet do things I never thought they could do (though I’m still not consciously controlling them). 

I have been in love since Chad (with actual men, not dances) but it was the tango that really taught me how that felt – it was easier to find after that.  But love with men comes and goes: the love of tango will never leave me.