Michael Bettancourt's comments on his aches and pains learning to dance the Irish jig and reel, kicked off a wonderful memory for me. A few years ago at Trinity University in Dublin, Ireland, where my partner, Daystar, was the keynote speaker for the 23rd annual American Indian Workshop and Conference, we took a break from the conference to witness Irish dancing; the real thing not the Broadway pizzazz version. When I asked a security guard where we could find Irish dancing at its best, he pointed across the river to a pub. There, he said, we'd experience unadulterated Irish dancing - "come hell or high water". He was right on target. We experienced first class, full-fledged Irish dancing in a pub setting; turned upside down by an exhibition of splendid, young female dancers from the Irish School of Dancing, ranging in age from about 8 years old into their teens. Their unexpected arrival at the pub, along with their guardians and parents, turned the joint around. The transformation was immediate and complete. Beer drinkers slapped down their mugs. Hitting the tables was a signal to shut up and be quiet. Everyone's faces suddenly lifted with pride and joy. Even the rock band on stage sat silent and respectful, their hands on their laps, like choir boys on their best behavior - ready to break into the jig and reel. For they were about to turn their instruments into the great cause of Irish independence, at least that was the way I saw it; and they achieved their goal with inevitable discipline and dignity. Seated as we were, close to the stage, we were in the thick of it, amazed. The cultural dynamic of transcending the site of a beer hall into a highly respectful display of traditional Irish dancing was loaded with inherent drama. The young dancers were the real McCoy. When they arrived dressed in splendid green taffeta, lavish curls spilling and bouncing around their faces with abandon, they brought on the guardian spirits of lo and behold. The girls danced their hearts out, and, as the poet said, captured our hearts in their hands. Their youth, discipline, maturity of purpose, and, above all else, their joy in dancing, captivated the crowd. I asked a neighbor at our table why, in Irish dancing, the girl's hands are held so stiff at their sides, while their feet continuously move with incredible rhythm and bounce. He said that when the British occupied Ireland, they shut down Irish dancing, Bar maids behind the counter learned to keep their hands stiff at their sides, while their feet moved silently to the rhythm of the Irish jig and reel. Now that particular protest sounds like a tall story, but I'm willing to believe it. Here, in the great democracy of shared low down repressed experiences, the diehard representatives of the American government in the 19th and 20th centuries shut down Indian dancing. In their eyes, and with their weapons first hand, these iron hard defenders of cultural dominance thought of Indian dancing as a display of barbarism decisively to be dealt with. Well, the British failed, and so did the fistful of Americans. To everyone's surprise, what resulted from these viciously repressed indigenous dances turned out to be a blessing for all us - without disguise. Moral: If you are willing to dance under the table for a shared sense of humanity, do it with everything you've got. There may be no second chances.
Ned Bobkoff
read Michael Bettencourt's article
