This Mennonite is attempting to dance

  

I finally understand Ukrainian dance. After carefully observing my daughter prepare for performances last year, it all comes down to this: 

Apply a thick layer of makeup to your face. Then another. Put on your first layer of costume. Then another. Add more heavy fabric in the form of a vest and apron. Attach a tall, elaborate headpiece secured with at least fifty bobby pins. Then slide on some tall red boots with heels. 

You’re ready. Ready to run, jump and spin for five minutes straight. There will be no time to catch your breath or drink water. Allow the sweat to permeate your first layer of clothing. Then the second. Ignore the cramping, nausea, and sweat trickling down your face. And most important of all, keep smiling. 

At the age of 45, I don’t know how I convinced myself to sign up for this. I’m not a dancer or Ukrainian. I’m Mennonite (gasp!). Sure, I married a woman from Ukraine, but that doesn’t mean I can do the splits five feet in the air. 

Someday I hope to do this. Honestly, I had hoped they would train me to solely do the stunts. Isn’t that what Ukrainian dance is all about? The kicks, the jumps, and the flips (okay, maybe not flips)? They look difficult, but so much easier than moving my feet a hundred miles an hour while waving my arms in the air. 

And then there are the positions. Ballet positions! Today's Ukrainian dance, as I’ve recently learned, builds on ballet footwork and movements but with a Ukrainian twist.

As a non-Ukrainian, non-dancing Mennonite, I realize I have no say in this matter, yet I must voice my protest. There’s no way those Ukrainian warriors called Cossacks were pointing their toes while doing their war dance four centuries ago. They weren’t thinking about the “positions” of one’s feet. They definitely weren’t doing bar exercises. They were pumping themselves up, preparing to go out into battle. Hence all the yelps.

I understand, dance evolves. And so I’m learning the basics, like how to point your feet in opposite directions while bending down. Trust me, it doesn’t feel good. 

I can barely follow the bar routine, let alone spin in the air without wanting to throw up. Clicking my heels in the air takes immense concentration. All the while, I’m reminded to point those toes! 

My kind Ukrainian dance instructor, who has likely never encountered a 45-year-old Mennonite in his class, has no idea where to start. “You’re back?!” he yelled as I entered the room for my second class. I couldn’t tell whether he was about to laugh or cry. 

With absolutely no natural dance instinct, I have only one card to play: the fact that I’m a man. We’re a rare species when it comes to dance. Typically, boys will stick around until they’re nine or ten – until they realize other boys may be watching them. Even in our “mature” dance group, they had only one man for decades and he’s now pushing seventy. 

In my daughter’s class, it’s the same ratio: one boy for every 10 girls. Their instructor dares not even make eye contact with one of the boys for fear he won’t turn up for next practice. The girls may get tongue-lashings for missteps, but the boys – well, they receive only positive reinforcement. 

I’m a little baffled as to why any boy would want to quit. Not only do you get to be surrounded by young ladies, you get to do all the stunts. The girls can spin twenty times on one toe and receive meagre applause, while the boys kick one foot in the air and get a standing ovation. 

It’s a man’s world, as it turns out, even when it comes to dance.  

As to whether I can actually kick my foot in the air while dancing, we’ll see.