A lot about livin' and a little 'bout love

I'm writing this in response to a note that a friend recently posted on Facebook. It alleged that white people cannot dance, particularly Canadians. In this note, my friend referenced his first dancing experience, and his most recent. It made me nostalgic for the days of Junior High School Much Music Video Dances.

They cost at least two dollars more than a regular dance; however, it was SO worth it - especially in Grade 7. Everyone, and I mean everyone, even the cool ninth graders came out to the video dance. It was what student party night is to university students to the 12-15 year old teenagers at Quispamsis Junior High.

It was 1995, so some of the pretty and popular Grade 9 girls would wear loose-fitting, low-cut jeans, with their Calvin Klein underwear sticking out of the top. Looking back, I'm not sure if that was actually stylish, or if the girls were just proud to be wearing something designed by Calvin Klein and felt the need to show off. Most of us simply wore our green, burgundy or black Club Monaco sweatshirts. I don't think there was anything special about it, except for the name, but it cost over $40. Oh to be a slave to fashion.

I remember learning the macerena at this time, and a dance to Saturday Night by Whigfield if I'm not mistaken. Girls (and a few brave boys) would line up, side by side, and engage in these synchronized dance moves, mimicking what we'd see on the screen. Oh how wonderful we thought we were (actually, we only pretended to think we were wonderful - I know I didn't actually feel like I was). Then, IT happened. IT being the inevitable slow dance. How laughable we must have been to our teacher chaperons, or worse, the MUCH MUSIC video dance CREW!!! I'm sure they'd do it on purpose...play a Celine Dion song, or worse, November Rain...

Girls would quickly separate from their friends - their eyes darting wildly around the room - hoping and praying to see him. Oh yes, HIM. The lights are flashing, couples are starting to form, like a bees nestling on flowers - fear and dread take over, you see other girls, weaker girls, running to the bathroom in agony...their ever-comforting best friend close behind (only because no one asked her to dance either).

And then you see him, and, no, he wasn't your first choice, or your eleventh - but he wasn't dancing with anyone else...so you move in...the song's already two minutes in (but that's fine since November Rain is nearly ten minutes long).

"Ummmm....will you dance with me," you say with a quiver in your voice.

He agrees. THANK YOU GOD!

And so it begins...

THE SEVENTH GRADE SHUFFLE. Your arms are stretched as far as they'll reach, just to gently place them on his shoulders - his arms are also outstretched, to nervously place them on your waist (likely leaving a sweat mark on your brand new, olive green Club Monaco sweatshirt). There is room for at least one other person to slide in between the two of you...but it's magical.

Thoughts involve, "ooh, I wonder who's watching...oh my god, I'm three inches taller than him...his hands are really sweaty...Oh my god, Mr. Wilson's watching, totally embarassing."

Of course they don't play the extended version of the song...you awkwardly part ways with your dance partner...and it's off to do the Cotton Eyed Joe dance.

"Where did you come from, where did you go..."

Now, nearly 15 years later, it takes every amount of will power that I have to not launch into those familiar dances when I hear the songs associated with them (let's face it, I totally still do the dances). I may even haul out the running man or the shopping cart...

Many white people may not be able to dance with any sort of validity; however, we've mastered the art of making people laugh through our intricate, popular moves. There has to be something to say for that...right? maybe? err....LONG LIVE THE SEVENTH GRADE SHUFFLE (and thank you Mark Monroe for being taller than me in Grade 7 and dancing with me once at a Much Music Video Dance in 1995).