My cousins who lived in Shrub Oak were folk dancers. They were first cousins who married each other. Their collection of folk music for dancing was amazing. I remember learning those dances along with the Yiddish jokes and expressions. Family gatherings often included folk dancing, except for our Thanksgiving get together in Staten Island where there was barely room to eat our meals in our laps. But, at the latter, there was plenty of political discussion and very civilized arguments between the Maoists, the Marxists, and others. In some ways, I was protected from the abuse you described because I wasn't told about the blacklisting of my dad until I was in my early 30s. I also didn't know that some people thought Jews had horns until I gave a talk on my work to students at a vocational high school in rural Massachusetts. It was truly startling to hear students asking if I had horns at the end of the talk. It was 1998, after all.
What meaningful thoughts, Billy - and, Dan, how much your own experience echoes mine. Yes, somehow these evenings stand at the polar opposite of how dances were considered during the school year, or during school proms, or in places once called "finishing" schools.
I especially relate to that sweetness you mention, Dan, the permission to touch those we might be developing crushes on, or the allowance to hold the hand of a another boy or man, if it was offered. I imagine that most dancers who weren't regulars imagined that others were smoother, more graceful, more in tune with the music and the rhythm. But it was the trying that mattered, no?
I loved Friday Night Folk Dancing at the Barn… and I love this. I was too shy to dance most dances… confused in the steps… awkward and embarrassed… most of the dancers seemed so relaxed, assured, and graceful. The old dance records were scratched to hell, the record player blaring wonderful upbeat songs from weird wonderful places… was that one Bulgarian? Romanian? Hungarian? From Israel? From the Caribbean or Hollywood? Peasant dances! Music of The People! Songs of Togetherness! Not idleness… never decadence. “Pop” music was disgraceful… we’re not dancing to riff-raff trash… our music, like everything we strive for in Goldens Bridge, in our communal colony, must have purpose, must unite us! In the “struggle!” And the music played, the folk dance teacher reminded us of the steps, the experts grabbed hands of the youngsters and into the circle you go! And the men in the corner would laugh about the volleyball game they had the weekend before or the one coming up next: collective games, collective sport, collective day camp for the kids, collective swimming… for my Dad he made sure even the appearance of the ice cream truck would mean kids at the Colony’s Beach would all get ice creams collectively… he was thrilled to pay for ‘em. Folk dance night would always have a rotation of “volunteered” community helpers at the fridge selling sodas at cost or maybe something a little stronger… serving cakes or cookies someone else may have just cooked. Folks would kibitz about politics… console a neighbor or congratulate their new child, grandchild. A few would smoke outside, considering politics intensely. Young boys and girls too wired to dance darted around or played in the back, in the darkened playground, or high up in the Barn’s hayloft yards above the dancing. Hundreds of bare feet thousands of times dancing hora or cherkassia steps had smoothed the barn floor splinter-free better than any sander could. Mothers would grab children’s hands and drag them to the floor… and later, when time passed, these same children would be back to drag their old parents to the floor: Moms AND Dads. Each had a special dance… one they’d impatiently wait for, finally cajole the dance leader to play from the record stack… later, from some digital collection. For me, I’d watch my friends dance. It was nice… sitting on the steps up near the loft… or hiding in shadows near the cookies. Watching the collective. My “other mothers at the beach” or my counselors at day camp, or the girls I once and still loved, spin, twirl, cherkassie (if that’s the name of that thing), long past my bedtime. And into the pitch darkness (we had no street lights other than the Moon and starlight) I’d walk alone home along our sacred unpaved roads while the music played on for the final dancers who stayed til the end.
This is like reading about my own childhood in Philadelphia, including many years of folk dancing on the plaza of the art museum and listening to my grandmother’s stories about organizing for the Ladies Garment Workers Union. Thanks for the memories!
My cousins who lived in Shrub Oak were folk dancers. They were first cousins who married each other. Their collection of folk music for dancing was amazing. I remember learning those dances along with the Yiddish jokes and expressions. Family gatherings often included folk dancing, except for our Thanksgiving get together in Staten Island where there was barely room to eat our meals in our laps. But, at the latter, there was plenty of political discussion and very civilized arguments between the Maoists, the Marxists, and others. In some ways, I was protected from the abuse you described because I wasn't told about the blacklisting of my dad until I was in my early 30s. I also didn't know that some people thought Jews had horns until I gave a talk on my work to students at a vocational high school in rural Massachusetts. It was truly startling to hear students asking if I had horns at the end of the talk. It was 1998, after all.
What meaningful thoughts, Billy - and, Dan, how much your own experience echoes mine. Yes, somehow these evenings stand at the polar opposite of how dances were considered during the school year, or during school proms, or in places once called "finishing" schools.
I especially relate to that sweetness you mention, Dan, the permission to touch those we might be developing crushes on, or the allowance to hold the hand of a another boy or man, if it was offered. I imagine that most dancers who weren't regulars imagined that others were smoother, more graceful, more in tune with the music and the rhythm. But it was the trying that mattered, no?
I loved Friday Night Folk Dancing at the Barn… and I love this. I was too shy to dance most dances… confused in the steps… awkward and embarrassed… most of the dancers seemed so relaxed, assured, and graceful. The old dance records were scratched to hell, the record player blaring wonderful upbeat songs from weird wonderful places… was that one Bulgarian? Romanian? Hungarian? From Israel? From the Caribbean or Hollywood? Peasant dances! Music of The People! Songs of Togetherness! Not idleness… never decadence. “Pop” music was disgraceful… we’re not dancing to riff-raff trash… our music, like everything we strive for in Goldens Bridge, in our communal colony, must have purpose, must unite us! In the “struggle!” And the music played, the folk dance teacher reminded us of the steps, the experts grabbed hands of the youngsters and into the circle you go! And the men in the corner would laugh about the volleyball game they had the weekend before or the one coming up next: collective games, collective sport, collective day camp for the kids, collective swimming… for my Dad he made sure even the appearance of the ice cream truck would mean kids at the Colony’s Beach would all get ice creams collectively… he was thrilled to pay for ‘em. Folk dance night would always have a rotation of “volunteered” community helpers at the fridge selling sodas at cost or maybe something a little stronger… serving cakes or cookies someone else may have just cooked. Folks would kibitz about politics… console a neighbor or congratulate their new child, grandchild. A few would smoke outside, considering politics intensely. Young boys and girls too wired to dance darted around or played in the back, in the darkened playground, or high up in the Barn’s hayloft yards above the dancing. Hundreds of bare feet thousands of times dancing hora or cherkassia steps had smoothed the barn floor splinter-free better than any sander could. Mothers would grab children’s hands and drag them to the floor… and later, when time passed, these same children would be back to drag their old parents to the floor: Moms AND Dads. Each had a special dance… one they’d impatiently wait for, finally cajole the dance leader to play from the record stack… later, from some digital collection. For me, I’d watch my friends dance. It was nice… sitting on the steps up near the loft… or hiding in shadows near the cookies. Watching the collective. My “other mothers at the beach” or my counselors at day camp, or the girls I once and still loved, spin, twirl, cherkassie (if that’s the name of that thing), long past my bedtime. And into the pitch darkness (we had no street lights other than the Moon and starlight) I’d walk alone home along our sacred unpaved roads while the music played on for the final dancers who stayed til the end.
This is like reading about my own childhood in Philadelphia, including many years of folk dancing on the plaza of the art museum and listening to my grandmother’s stories about organizing for the Ladies Garment Workers Union. Thanks for the memories!