Taking a stand at the pre-teen dance

Ireceived the email on Thursday – “Dance tomorrow night? Can you be there?” It was Jojo – there was a monthly community pre-teen dance the next night. She is tasked with a variety of activities, including managing the pre-teen dances, and had probably left a phone message we’d missed in the flurry of the week. We’ve been chaperoning for the last year or so, when we are able, when the math works out – thus far on the Friday evenings when the kids are home we have been there.

Technically, the dances are for grades four through seven (our elementary school has a grade seven in Knowlton – one of the few remaining in the ETSB), although since we volunteer our two older teens, now fifteen, are allowed to attend with us, and usually do a little work while there, whether selling refreshments and snacks at the canteen from 7:00 – 8:30 (closing well before the dance’s end, simply to cut down on sugar consumption), or at the door, or watching the crowd with us.

My son Angus loves loud music and lights, and comes by that naturally. He typically spends his time in the same corner of the room, where he has the best view, and where we can easily keep an eye on him. While I worry every time that his flapping arms and slightly strange behaviour will put some kids off, or that he will be made fun of, there is barely a ripple. Mostly the kids have gotten used to him, and those who have seen him before have an idea of what to expect. They know that he’s having fun in his own way. At every dance, someone comes up and says hello and calls him by name. They don’t seem to mind that he doesn’t look back at them, or return the greeting. He’s fifteen now, and nearing six feet tall, towering over the pre-teen dance designates, in particular the tiny fourth graders. I had almost forgotten how little they can be.

Our friend Jeremy was at the lights and music as usual – an impressive display for a small-town dance, and certainly one we would have been awed by back in the day. Often paired with another friend, Justin, the pair has volunteered since they themselves were teens in Knowlton. Now Jeremy’s eldest son is in grade four and attending the dances, wide-eyed and excited to be out on the fringe of the dance floor, or coming by to ask Dad for songs, or even to put some on the playlist himself.

The last few dances there hasn’t been as much dancing going on. This seems to annoy a few of the organizers, and truth be told, at times it saddens me. I am aware, however, that that is totally a personal feeling. This belongs to the kids, not to us, and they may choose to experience this social gathering differently than we did.

As teens, we lived to dance. We were fortunate to have the support of artist and Richmond parent (now grandparent) Sandy (Picken) Roberts, who helped us run our own dance club in the Legion Hall, where friends did the deejaying, and where we built up a bit of a budget to invest in special music on occasion. Our parents chaperoned. And we danced, socialized, developed crushes and so on. There were occasional scandals, like the night several guy friends showed up fully loaded on probably whatever alcohol they could get their hands on, and were turned away at the door, and barred from the next dance for their state. I remember my father feeling sorry for a few of them and stating that they would probably not be feeling very well shortly. The punishment meant that they didn’t try to pull that trick again. I think mostly they were embarrassed.

Another scandal involved the rather enthusiastic attempts at “Dirty Dancing” – something our parents were a little overwhelmed to witness.

Dirty Dancing wasn’t happening at the pre-teen dance (thank goodness), but the main perplexing thing for the organizers was that not much dancing was happening at all. The attendees (90% of whom I can state had made an effort in their appearance, mostly evident in their posturing, or round-pupiled stares) clustered in little packs, talking, teasing, and occasionally one would break out in a move or two, but then go back to the clumsy, excitable standing or walking taking place. One of the smallest ones started doing walk-overs (a gymnastic move resembling leaning over onto her hands and then walking her feet over her head). Anyone who has chaperoned a dance, in particular for the elementary school circuit, knows that gymnastics are an unwritten rule of dance decorum. And then at some point a whole bunch of people gather to demonstrate how far they can do the splits.

Youth Hero Extraordinaire (it’s a title, requires caps) Scoobie’s arrival resulted in the usual Scoobie-mania screams as the titan of tots (he’s a strapping early twentysomething colossus of a lad with a great fade haircut who managed to attend in a hockey jersey and shorts in spite of the freezing rain that was undoubtedly starting outside) entered the arena (read: dance room). There was screaming. There was running. There was jumping. There were kids flinging themselves at the local celeb with arms open and thrown around him. I’m sure there was a layer of at least seven kids by the time he made it to the deejay table. There was probably tackling. Heroes to youngsters often get hugged and pummeled simultaneously. Scoobie knows his limits though, and makes sure the kids know them too. I’m pretty sure there isn’t a Scoobie entrance that doesn’t result in at least one small bruise (endured by Scoobie, that is).

The crowd gathered and participated for the usual limbo contest. They weren’t able to really get their act together by the time the end-of-the-night dance off competition began. As a rule, the attendees sit in a large circle on the ground. The lights come on. The deejay plays snippets of songs, and individuals or small groups (say two or three) dance off against each other, the winners detected by the level of applause and response to their performances. They wanted to stand around though...for some reason...so that’s what it went back to. Lights out, dance floor lights back on, and the music.

They visited the bathroom (main doors are always kept open to allow for safety and quick checks by chaperones), and where I overheard a conversation whilst using the loo myself, of the smallest girls looking through a make-up that they didn’t ultimately use, as to wearing a “smoky eye”. I had to stifle a giggle.

They sipped on soft drinks and juice from cans, ate chips and a few bought chocolate bars. Boys hung out with boys, girls hung out with girls. Occasionally the groups crossed brief paths.

There were dramatic moments, where boyfriends and girlfriends didn’t dance to the night’s few slow songs, where people looked for each other and ran around.

I have always loved volunteering with youth. There is something truly refreshing and while things change, there is overwhelming evidence that an awful lot stays the same. And while there are moments when we adults don’t really understand what the heck they are doing (such as not dancing at a dance), the important part is giving them a safe, fun space (bonus if there is music) to have fun together in, to grow up in, to socialize in. None of them were on phones or devices, so at least the clusters were real, and the laughter was real, and the friendships were real.

Looking forward to the next dance, grateful that Sandy and our parents were there for us when we needed them to be too.