It stared back at me from the glossy pages of the dance costume catalog–a gold lame and sequin-encrusted number with a fitted, bejeweled bodice. Its long sleeves and crystal-edged skirt would be the perfect backdrop (so said my tap dance teacher) for the accompanying feather boa, completing the ensemble. 
He had selected the outfit for our two numbers in the upcoming recital. Since one was the big production song “Buenos Aires” from Evita, he had made a good choice. I just wasn’t so sure how I’d look in this get-up. And I still couldn’t believe that this class of adults actually would perform…in a recital. Aren’t recitals for kids and their camera-toting parents?
The weekly tap class certainly met my fitness goals. Tapping is good exercise and a great leg-toner. I made noise, sweat, danced, had fun, and imagined I was performing at Radio City Music Hall. The routines increased my heart rate, got blood flowing to my muscles, and exercised my brain with the dance patterns.
Wonderful memories of my childhood dance instruction filled my mind as I considered the recital—the graceful close of each ballet class when we extended our arms, looked into the mirrors facing us as if they were our applauding audience, slipped our right leg behind us as we had seen countless ballerinas do at the end of “The Nutcracker” when they accepted their rose bouquets, and dipped to the ground in a flowing act of thanks to our adoring, imaginary fans. My leggings had become a tutu and my pony tail—the Snow Queen’s crown.
Tap classes were a favorite of mine as a child as well. Clad in a little pink leotard and tights with Mary Jane black patent leather tap shoes, I’d stomp around the garage practicing. In junior high I learned time steps and more intricate tap patterns. So, decades later, my visions of dancing like a Rockette and getting into shape are what prompted me to sign up for tap again.
Across the country amateurs like me were flocking to dance classes. The acclaimed production “Bring in da Noise, Bring in da Funk” (choreographed by Savion Glover) had a long run on Broadway. “Riverdance,” the Irish step-dancing extravaganza, sold out performance halls after being a hit in Dublin and London. “Stomp” played to SRO crowds. Just as tap enrollment skyrocketed decades ago whenever one of Shirley Temple’s films was released, wanna be performers sashay into dance studios at the same pace in hopes of one day dancing like Gregory Hines, Savion Glover, or the greats of the past like Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, and Bill “Bojangles” Robinson.
Tap dancing descended from tribal drum music and arose in America in the 1800’s when drums were banned by insurrection-fearing slaveholders. “Bring in da Noise, Bring in da Funk” chronicles its history. As English, Irish, and Scottish immigrants poured into the U.S., they brought with them their percussive dance styles. The four types meshed and became worthy predecessors of blues, jazz, and gospel that can express sorrow as well as freewheeling joy.
The fact that tap began as an expression of freedom springing from the souls of people who were denied it is a tribute to the human spirit and those who overcome oppression. Somehow, when I get the dance steps right and the tap sounds are crisp and clear, I am rejoicing with them in their freedom. I just wish my Scottish/Irish heritage guaranteed my dancing finesse.
Back to my first class at the dance studio–I felt like the runt of the group. It took me longer than the other women to learn the steps. Women ranged in age from 17-62 and had taken tap for at least four years each. They picked up the routines quickly. They didn’t look like klutzes. They got the rhythm. They looked forward to the recital.
Turned out the costume was an extra $45. I was measured for it, but wasn’t convinced anyone ever would see me draped in gold lame. Begging out of the performance because I didn’t have the routine down, the instructor said I had until May to get it. He was serious. So were the other students. They weren’t professionals. They were just in shape. Their feet all moved together with the tap rhythms, as they’re supposed to.
Then there was the non-refundable recital fee. Besides, who would I have invited? Who would have come? Friends from church? My mom didn’t think I seriously was considering participating. My sister and several friends wanted to support me and see this spectacle for themselves, but I was afraid to mess up the staging or trip on my boa. I didn’t think I’d go through with it. Or would I??
If you happen to spot an old photo popping up somewhere on Facebook of a dancer in gold lame and sequins tapping her heart out to the Latin rhythms, you’ll know I changed my mind.