Why do we stop dancing?

Our human minds were wired to dance and sing.  That is what makes us human.

Try this recipe:
(a) Round up some children.
(b) Play some music.
(c) Shake and bake.

In 10 minutes, notice the little homo sapiens go wild.

If adults are around -- or older children -- we laugh.

Later, the same little homo sapiens grow up and say, "I have two left feet."  They have forgotten who they were.  They have forgotten what it is like to be essentially human -- the only baby animals who naturally dance without being taught or coaxed.

I wrote a draft post about growing up and forgetting.  But felt I should write about the same concept in poetry instead.  The first poem was "When we were both three" -- a poem about a rare moment when my thirteen-year-old son danced.  This is the kid that loved to dance as a small child.

What happens to our dancing self?  Laughter made our little-kid self go and hide, I'm afraid.  The feeling that children get is that the people laughing are laughing in a way to hurt or to say that our dancing is a big joke.  It is mostly not intended to hurt, but my guess is being laughed at is the epicenter of why people stop dancing.

Today I present the second poem (below), which is actually lyrics to a song about my being a kid and having a plastic guitar.  My family said I called this plastic instrument my "Hound Dog."  The guitar was named after the one song I loved to sing from Elvis Presley:  "You Ain't Nothing but a Hound Dog."  Writing the first poem about my youngest son being three brought up this forgotten event in my own life.  Some of my first dancing (like Elvis) was with my plastic guitar as a prop.

I sang the lyrics of my new song ("Ain't Nothing like my Hound Dog") to my old 19-year-old son.  I felt good that he liked it.

"Yeah, I wrote it during a very boring meeting at work," I told him.

I again felt very happy when he followed up with sending me a YouTube video that he felt went along with the theme of enjoying dance but being laughed at.

Before my presentation of my song "Ain't Nothing like my Hound Dog," let's first watch the video my son sent me:  The child is talented young dancer.  Pay attention to the laughter in the background.  When will this budding dancer realize that people should enjoy and not laugh?



I am sure that no harm is meant.  People laugh.  And maybe it will never be interpreted as being wrong.  The chances are high, however, that he eventually have someone say something mean or hurtful, no matter how good he is at song or dance as he grows up.

Many of us who dance tango had to rediscover the dancer in us!  Where was it hiding?

My song below is dedicated to Gail Schumacher, the neighbor who smashed my plastic guitar.  Yes, I did hit her over the head with the remaining bits of guitar.  Yes, she did cry.  Sorry Gail, but luckily when you went to tell on me, my mother had witnessed your violent reaction to my song and dance.  Gail, I'm back dancing.  It it took a while, but I am back.

Dedicated to all the dancers who have not yet found the dancer they once were...


Ain’t Noth’n Like my Hound Dog

Verse
Hound Dog’s strings I strum all day.
Hound Dog’s the only song I play.
Hound-Dog-like moving Elvis hips.
Hound Dog’s the howling of my lips.

Chorus
I’m a three-year old, one-man band
Sing’n all the passion I can.
I’m a three-year old, in-the-street band
Dancing all the passion I can.

[Wild howling guitar solo]

Verse
That girl’s a break’n Hound Dog with her fist
She says she’s tired of sing’n and hips.
Three-year old rage: Hound Dog’s on her head.
Hound Dog’s last song’s a hit! -- on her head!

Chorus
I’m a three-year old, one-man band
Sing’n all the passion I can.
I’m a three-year old, in-the-street band
Dancing all the passion I can.

Bridge
Sing, dance like no one’s around.
Love your dancing and sing’n sound.
Others may listen and stop you by hurt.
Give them your veggies, eat the dessert!
Sing, dance like no one’s around.
Love your dancing and sing’n sound.

Verse
Hound Dog’s strings I strum all day.
Hound Dog’s the only song I play.
Hound-Dog-like moving Elvis-hips.
Hound Dog’s the howling of my lips.

Chorus
Yeah...
I’m a three-year old, one-man band
Sing’n all the passion I can.
I’m a three-year old, in-the-street band
Dancing all the passion I can.


By Mark Word
 a.k.a., the Tango Therapist


Photo Credit of plastic guitar.