Real men dance Ukrainian

 

I have seen the dark underbelly of the Ukrainian dance recital. Its underground labyrinth of hallways and change rooms is extensive. 

I saw small children quivering and lone parents sweating. I saw young men with costumes hanging haphazardly off their chests and frenzied women pleading for last-minute lipstick application. I smelled fear within the fortitude of even the oldest dancers; one huddled in the corner, mumbling to himself while rocking on his heels. I felt the sense of dread – dare I say it – within my own soul. 

“How do we know when it’s our turn?” I asked my daughter amidst the backstage chaos. She shrugged her shoulders. “We just know.” It’s a strange feeling needing reassurance from one’s teenaged daughter – the one who will dance five more dances than me; less reassuring to realize no one’s in charge of this thing. 

Then the members of the semi-professional adult ensemble arrived. My heart nearly skipped a beat. These are the legends of yore, the champions of recitals past; the ones who leap six feet skyward as they pull their heels over their heads, making a mockery of us mere mortals. 

As they stretched their long limbs on the stage floor, I too began a mild form of stretching backstage, at which point my observant daughter asked, “Do you really need to do that?” 

She had a point. While we, the maturest of all the dancers, don’t do any split jumps or kiltses – an arched-back leap in the air that could literally kill us – we do hop in the air at least two times. With enough force, one could displace a hip. 

Not that my hips are failing me... anymore. The chiropractor confirmed earlier this year that something was out, but he put it back in. At age 46, I’m hopeful. Based on the age of our oldest dancer, I could have 22 more years of dancing in me. 

At least mentally, I hope it gets easier. I hadn’t experienced this kind of anxiety in decades. Performing a three-minute dance routine in one’s forties is worse than a childhood piano recital. 

As I watched the eight-year-olds perform before us, I suddenly longed for a simpler routine. Why couldn’t we have basic steps like that? In that moment I suddenly wanted to strangle our instructor for choreographing such a complex dance – for putting us all in this vulnerable situation – at our age! 

But it was too late. Before I could run away screaming, we were on stage. I don’t remember much – thankfully there’s a video to verify that I was there. My daughter said she yelled encouragement from backstage, but I heard nothing. I only remember the bright lights, the occasional high-pitched yips, and the shuffling of feet. 

To my amazement, we all (namely me) stayed upright through the entire dance. We matched the level of at least the 12-year-olds in our abilities and surely that of the eight-year-olds in our determination. While my technique is still a work in progress, we showcased that intangible thing called hope – you can always try something new later in life. 

If not for one of my male comrades, who danced last year for the first time in his adult life, I would have never joined the group. When I saw him performing last year, I thought – what if.... What if I could dance? If there was ever a dance that appealed to me, it was that of the Ukrainians, where the crowd actively cheers on the boys and men, desperately encouraging them to not quit upon hitting puberty. 

In my daughter’s dance group, only one male remains. God bless him, he braves it with nine young women. I mean, it sounds good, right? One might think so while watching the performance but, contrary to popular belief, the girls don’t fawn over you every practice for simply being of the male gender. The stereotypical Ukrainian dance trope of which female dancer wins the heart of the lone male dancer, is in fact not based on reality (and should be eliminated once and for all from the dance repertoire, according to my daughter). 

Our dance had none of that. The maturity of our group is such that we dance in true Mennonite form (theoretically, as Mennonites do not dance) – men on one side of the stage, women on the other. 

And most certainly no split jumps or kiltses.