Terrible (but Lovely)

Ambreen lived her dance life every week at Tango 178 before the pandemic. In this poetic, emotionally charged and disarmingly confessional piece she shares with us her feelings of trepidation, delight and terror on her return to tango.

At the bottom of the stairs it is already too much.  The music floats down, always more plaintive from outside the dance space.  As we climb towards the sound, a flash of recognition  - the song is by Tanturi: 

Oigo tu voz

La que mi oído no olvida!

Me trae tu voz

Hasta mi pena escondida

 ***

I hear your voice

The one I can’t forget

It takes me

To my hidden sorrow

It has been three years almost to the day. The last time I danced was just before lockdown in 2020.  For reasons of shielding, and then other life circumstances, I have not been able to return to tango till now. 

I have missed the feeling of walking into this milonga at the end of a long week, allowing the music to fill my ears, the immediate shift in neurochemistry and mood.  I have missed the hugs of friends, the awkward excitedness of changing into dance shoes in a narrow wooden chair, next to a fellow dancer trying to do the same.  And  – that reliable oddity – the way my body, seemingly exhausted from mundane duties,  rises with surprising swiftness from the chair as a favourite orchestra  begins to play, and the looked-for cabaceo is found.

Something else: I have missed the closing of eyes upon stepping into a partner’s embrace, the fullness of the moment of listening before we move, a moment when two partners attune to each other, attune to the music.  And then -  as the ronda begins to turn once more - the sensation of thought dissolving, of surrender to the body’s wisdom and creativity, the feeling of coming home.

And now, returning to Tango 178, three years having passed, it is this particular music I hear first – the melody of the first line is itself almost a spontaneous cry of pain that escapes upon hearing the voice of a lost love  - this particular music which invites each of us to our “hidden sorrow”, which takes us there, together. 

So much was lost during the time of the pandemic, and the course of many lives was changed forever. Although there was positive change too for many of us, we are all a little bit older now. Some of us are not quite as well as we were, we have lost people, there are dear friends who we would have danced with who are not here.   As much as this music invites us to come home to one another’s embrace, this music is also a call to a collective grieving.

How then am I so elated? Every tango dancer knows how. We recognise this strange phenomenon, the way the music plucks our most painful strings and yet, in the embrace of our partner, in the mysterious turning of the ronda,  we experience a sense of connection, a sense of belonging and beauty.  And sometimes – subtle, even unnoticed - we find healing. 

For years, we came here to Tango 178 every Sunday evening – the same community, although the pre-pandemic venue is no more -  knowing the warmth of the reception that was waiting. It is a very special group of people and despite the fact that nobody comes to share their problems, there is a sense, after years of dancing this strange dance together, of a shared journey and strong affection. 

I am extremely lucky: my first dance is with Kate. I can feel her kindness in the gentle precision of her lead, in the slow unfolding and light flowing quality of her interpretation.  But I am shaking, and it’s not just the loss of core strength.  

Simon comes to dance a vals tanda with me.  He promises to keep it simple, knowing I haven’t danced for so long.  But as the music takes over, he says: “I can’t help it!” and his whirlwind creativity begins to emerge.  I am no match, and at times feel that I won’t be able to stay on my feet.  “How does it feel to be back?” he asks at one point.  I sense that I am gripping on to his shoulder with my arm, weighing down his exuberance, a familiar voice of self-criticism now barking in my head.  I am breathless, almost inarticulate. I want to tell Simon how much it means that he and Emily have kept Tango 178 alive through the pandemic and have worked so hard to make sure our community survived.  The only words I can utter are: “Terrible… but lovely.”

When I dance with a couple of people I’ve not met before, it becomes even more terrible, and far less lovely.  I have no idea what I’m doing. The sensory overload of tuning to an unfamiliar body is so overwhelming that my muscles seem to get even weaker. Struggling to keep up, my body repeatedly realises it has been invited to travel here, while my feet have already stepped there. I barely listen to the music, and could not tell you what was played. The leaders are generous and express no dismay, but afterwards I am left ashamed and jelly-like.  Already, my feet are hurting and I have cramps in both calves. 

I sit on a chair and try to calm down. The friends I came with, Mercedes and Claire, who have also danced very little over the last few years, are both exquisite visions of grace and poise as they float by in the flow of the ronda.

But then a stroke of fortune – or two.  In the shape of Tom, whose embrace is so generous and so full of listening, of grace, balance and musicality;  and Mike, whose dance is intricate, yet so skilful and fluid that I can no longer think any destructive thoughts. I have missed the embrace of these wonderful, familiar partners, and others, each one of them unique. Every tango embrace is an opportunity for a conversation without words - a conversation which sometimes goes wrong, and leaves us with terrible feelings -  but is at other times  so deeply satisfying, so fulfilling and rich in mutual understanding, in fact so very lovely - that we must always return for more.  

Even if years pass, we return for more.  

Author: Ambreen Hameed