Learning to Dance (According to Mother Goose) by Nicholas

Girls and boys, come out to play,
The moon is shining as bright as day.

Leave your supper, and leave your sleep,
And come with your playfellows into the street.

Let me tell you a story. It’s a story about princes and princesses and queens. There’s magic and elegant balls and fancy costumes. Carriages take us to places of great imagination. And we dance all night till dawn’s dim light.

Dancing, I mean disco dancing, was a part of my liberation. Getting myself out onto the dance floor to shake and writhe was liberating. I had spent plenty of time watching the sensuous moves of dancers wishing I could just step out and let go and give in to the music. I think that disco dancing in the 1980s was to gay men what going to church on Sunday was to black women. Release me, oh, sweet Jesus, release me.

          Swaying, twisting, turning, stomping, and waving arms to those simple rhythms and an overwhelming drumbeat at deafening volume produced a sense of reverie. You could do anything and call it dancing. You didn’t even need a partner. It just took some nerve to go out onto a dance floor and shake your booty and other body parts.

          What got me dancing was hanging out with Jack, Steven and Bill (whom we called Chester). We worked together at Macy’s in San Francisco and we would go out after work. Friday saw us head to Trinity Place, a downtown bar that featured cabaret shows. Then it was on to get something to eat and then out dancing. These guys were light years ahead of me. They didn’t just dance, they had moves, fancy ones, sometimes with fans or with their stripped-off shirts. It was a performance to behold.

          On Halloween one year there was an all-night extravaganza at the Galleria, a designers warehouse with a five-story atrium. Entertainment was some disco diva headliner, the place was ablaze with a continuous laser light show, and the best dance music in the world pulsed through the night. We paid the high price for tickets, acquired the right wardrobe, and did the right drugs so we could dance frenetically all night long.

          For Halloween everybody was in costume. Jack loved the theatre and was adept at sewing so he volunteered—insisted, actually—on making all our costumes. We decided on a Renaissance courtier theme, with tights, puffy-sleeved velvet doublets, magnificent capes and flouncy hats with feathers. Mine was midnight blue and grey with ermine trim, of course. Our regal carriage—a grubby San Francisco taxi—took us to the ball. There were no pumpkins and no mean sisters. It was all glamour, like something out of a fairy tale.

          They’re all gone now and my dancing days are over for sure. Chester was the first to go. I took him to see my doctor because he didn’t have a doctor. But there wasn’t much to be done and he died before they even named his illness. Steven went dancing into eternity next. Jack hung on the longest, righteously angry that his life was being cut short.

          I don’t know what this has to do with Mother Goose. There may be no rhymes here but I and my “playfellows” left our supper and left our sleep and danced all night, seeking that release. This tale of princes and magic and carriage rides into the night and back again with the rising sun was one of those rare moments of wonder that stand out from day-to-day life. Not all Mother Goose rhymes have happy endings—like “down will come baby, cradle and all.” But though baby came to a hard landing, he enjoyed his time swaying high in the tree top.

Rock-a-bye, baby,
   In the tree top:
When the wind blows,
   The cradle will rock;
When the bough breaks,
   The cradle will fall;
Down will come baby,
   Cradle and all.

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.