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Brooks Peterson
Brooks Peterson's column is published Mondays. Brooks also sits on the Caller-Times editorial board and can be contacted at petersonb@caller.com
Monday, January 22, 2001
Don't save the last dance for George
All right, then: George W. Bush has gone and gotten himself inaugurated all official-like, signed, sealed, stamped, witnessed and delivered.
Fine. Great. But you know what the big news from this corner was? Somewhat to my astonishment, I have discovered a vital but indissoluble link between our new president and myself.
Who would have thought? I have been in his presence and been impressed with his openness and good nature...but that was as far as it went.
Until last week, that is, when a terse little story came tripping off the Associated Press revealing that our 43rd president and the NewsWretch share a bond of culture and history:
George W. Bush, scion of a distinguished political dynasty, Yale man, reformed party animal, entrepreneur, big-league sports capitalist, two-time Texas governor and now president of the United States . . . is not a dancin' man.
Going into the weekend's inaugural festivities, the issue of the non-dancin' man hung over the Bush camp: What would happen when George W. had to . . . dance?
Granted, back in his gubernatorial days, Bush had staggered through such inaugural ordeals twice, in 1995 and 1999. Prior to 1995, Bush lore has it, George W. hadn't danced since his wedding in 1977.
Since I am tapping out these lines in advance of the event, I can only assume George W. Bush did indeed manage to swing, swoop and/or stagger through the inaugural balls.
Never mind. What remains is the indelible fact that a personage as lofty as the president of these United States has shared my secret shame: the realization, avoided but never fully effaced, of the stigma that comes with. . . with . . . not being a dancin' man.
My mom and dad were known to cut a mean rug from time to time, and other members of my family were also - so far as I knew - reasonably proficient on the dance floor.
Whence sprang this mortifying state of affairs? ¨Quien sabe? Certainly a degree of native awkwardness contributed to the situation, as anyone who knows me can testify: I manage to get from Point A to Point B, usually without overturning any furniture, but I have never been accused of having the grace of, oh, say, a cheetah.
It isn't that we didn't try. Mom and Dad tried. I tried. In my early teens, I manfully went along with their urging that I submit to ballroom dance instruction.
And so in due course I found myself at the Annette Duval Studio of Dance, located just above the Texas Theater on the Drag, across from the UT tower. (It was a small thrill to be in such close proximity to the Texas: The place showed "art" - read: "naughty" - films from Europe, including "And God Created Woman," which they say starred Brigitte Bardot and a very, very small towel.)
Our dance mistress was a tiny woman of iron will and infinite patience. Somewhat to my astonishment, I . . . well, I learned, sort of. I was always paired off with a tall girl who chewed some sort of violet-scented gum; we were not the sleekest couple on the floor, but we made . . . progress.
With the passage of time, I picked up a little foxtrot, a little cha-cha, and a few other terpisocherean variants, and was actually building up a small stock of confidence when . . . something happened.
What it was, was rock 'n' roll. Elvis. The Twist, The Frug. The Mashed Potato. (And something that was discussed only in furtive whispers: The Dirty Bop.) Neither the world nor I was ready for the spectacle of this kid essaying the Funky Chicken. And so my dancing career went into abeyance.
True, on occasion, I can still essay a sort of junior-high box step thing, but always with the sense that . . . something . . . TERRIBLE . . . is going to happen.
But maybe, just maybe, I and others similarly situated can take heart from the example of our gallant president and foxtrot past our fears, tango past our terrors, polka past our panic.
An unlikely scenario? Perhaps. But remember, citizens: This Is America, the land where anything is possible. Don't be too quick to count us out.
Maestro?
Brooks Peterson
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© 2001 Corpus Christi Caller Times, a
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