Approval

So much about the tango scene is about approval. Approval by someone, sometimes a stranger, sometimes a "tango friend", sometimes closer, and every now and then, even approval from a romantic partner.

Not just approval when you are inviting a woman to dance. But also during and after the dance. How many dances would you get. How big a smile she has after each dance.

I don't feel this anxiety over approval all the time, not even most of the time, but enough times to be aware of it, of its effects. It plays very well into my insecurities. Especially with women. I feel I need to do a good job. I feel I am in some test. Back to the world of qualification exams, bringing grades back to parents to see, most of my life, all of my adolescent life. Being judged. Waiting for judgment.

I spent most of my evening yesterday with the pianist. We walked across Central Park from the Upper East to the Upper West Side. The sun was setting. And at some point we talked about being at a milonga. About the stratifications of dance levels, popularity. It's almost like being in high school. Who looks cool, who looks unattainable, who looks like their approval would be the ticket to approval by others. And the pianist said she doesn't care about that very much anymore, even in big festivals. She's already got to face a lot of that in her profession as a professional classical musician. I can imagine. Only. Being a musician. Must need approval to move on, to keep your sanity. She didn't look the competitive type, but I can imagine how difficult a life is when it's repleted of competitions.

We were talking about this past weekend in Baltimore. It was a big festival. Lots of people. You can hardly remember whom you danced with, let alone whom you observed to decide if you want to dance with them. There's the hunt and there's the avoidance of capture. And in all this shenanigan there is the tension. The tension that I realized having talked to my two festival companions before the last milonga, the tension that could cut apart the connection you try to develop in the dance. You worry so much about approval, about performance, about who else to get approval from later, about who has withheld the approval you expected, so much of this that you forget to connect with the person. The teacher I took classes with told us in class that your only job is to dance. Just dance. Forget the things you have to learn to get better; you just have to dance.

Simple. But difficult to do. That's because tango makes me carry the weight of my past on my shoulders while I try to dance. "Try."

Last night I didn't want to dance. I didn't want to dance Tuesday but I went, so I got less than five hours of sleep. That was because I had guests coming and I didn't want to be a bad host. Last night I failed to avoid tango because I ended up wanting to dance with the pianist. I didn't have my dance shoes, and my sandals would not allow me to dance with its bulkiness and rubber soles. So I danced barefoot.

That was the point. To dance. Even without proper shoes. Without proper anything. I just wanted to have this musician in my arms. She told me something beautiful about her performance as a pianist. She is an instrument just like the piano she's playing. They together are slaves to the music, and her job is to express her, her something, her soul, her thoughts, her emotions, about the music to the audience. She is a manipulator. She wants to make the audience feel a certain way; her way. That's what I want to do in the dance, not for an audience, but for the partnership, for the woman. My way to tell her how much I enjoy being with her. If you can use the word "love" in the narrow context of the dance, then it's a way to say, "I love you".

There's no room for approval. "Mistakes" are part of the expression.

So she had 15 minutes before her turn to work at the entrance door (in exchange for free entrance). So we danced. I danced without even thinking about approval. I danced just noticing who was in my arms. I danced so she knows how lucky I felt being there with her. She looked at me with a smile but also with intensity, so much could hardly avoid it.

For that moment. We were one. I wish there was something more later, but I managed for the most part to enjoy the moment.

After she excused herself to man the door, I realized the tango bug has bitten deep inside me again. I couldn't leave now. I didn't want to stay before I started dancing, but now I couldn't leave. So for the next two and a half hours I danced barefoot. Even though it hurt my feet a lot, to dance, those bare feet also made me feel lighter. No more desire for approval, no more insecurity, no more comparing myself to the more popular dancers. I am here. I am dancing with this woman or that woman. I am only distracted by the sight of the pianist when she returned, when she looked at me too.

Tonight I am not dancing. It's abad night for dancing anyway. One of my guests begged me to go but I need to take a rest. I haven't showered for two days. I haven't bought grocery for even longer. And don't forget sleep. And this weekend is going to be crazy because that huge monthly milonga is this Saturday. On top of that I have two parties to go to before that milonga. One is a house-warming party; the other is, though unofficial, a farewell party.

And Sunday? Before the weekly milonga? The pianist? No. I can't move too fast. In the past I have moved too fast because I was eager for approval, of a different kind, or maybe the same kind from women. I need some time alone for my internal approval. Approval by me. And reflect on the approval by those who really do care about me, including those who has for so long disapproved of much of what I did (parents!).

On the last night of the festival I had a very good time. Not only because the atmosphere was less tense. But also because I was less tense. I wasn't so anxious about whom to dance with. There was a beautiful dancer I had been wanting to dance with not just during this festival but for nearly a year now. She lives in Los Angeles so it's hard to meet her. And she's one of the most popular dancers so I couldn't find an opportunity to dance with her. But on the last night, I saw her sitting, but looking tired and even in pain. I sat next to her and asked how she was doing. She told me her feet were killing her. She said it in a very sincere way, as opposed to the way some women say that to pre-empt an invitation. She was very sweet in her words and her body language. I felt I connected with her. Without dancing. Without the music. And that was all that mattered to me. That was even better than dancing with her where I probably would not overcome the demon of approval-need. I have a lot to learn, but at least I have the right directions.

We drove through the night. Well, one of my companions drove through the night. It was surreal. Arriving on a Monday morning in New York City even before the finance people in their slick suits walk to their favorite coffee shops before yet another day of stock falls. I realized coming back how much I loved the city, how much I missed it. I don't regret having left. But I was very happy to be back. The city has already given me many paths to walk. And many people to meet. But above all, many connections that are precious and simple like the one I made with the Los Angelina. And not for a single moment did I feel a need of approval from the City. It simply is here, always, unconditionally.