by
Fred Miller
One hot, oppressive, August day in the New Orleans French Quarter, I was leisurely walking down Royal Street peering into the antique shop windows. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a dreamlike, sweeping ghostly movement from a second story window of the Monteleon Hotel. After a double take, I saw only an empty, wide-open window. Was I getting delirious from the notorious New Orleans summer heat and humidity and seeing things? Then out of nowhere appeared ballroom dancers in flowing long red gowns and tuxedo tails, floating, and gliding by the window with competition numbers on their backs. I felt pulled to go into the hotel lobby and up the stairs to the second floor large convention room where the dance competition was happening.
My first glance into the dance ballroom focused on three older women dancing together on top of the banquet tables dressed in their dance costumes, a long feathered black gown, a turquoise rhinestone laced gown, and a cherry red tango dress. The whole dance arena was vibrating from the stomping, clapping, and a chant of “Dance Dance Dance!” Everyone was dancing by herself, himself or with anyone nearby.
I walked in and sat down next to a teenager, and asked, “What’s going on here?”
She said, “That’s my grandma out there dancing and strutting. All of us grandkids, my mom and dad have come to see her dance competition.” She added, “she is having sooo much fun, I didn’t know grandma could dance like this. Doesn’t she look wild in her leopard skin dress?”
“Where does your grandmother take dance lessons?”
“From Steve at “Steve’s Dance Studio—Steve gives lessons and takes Grandma and her friends to these dance competitions all over the country.”
“Where are all the ladies husbands or boyfriends?”
“Mostly dead, gone or don’t like competition dancing. Dancing gives them something fun to do together.”
I looked around the dance area. The audience was filled with excited, cheering sons, daughters, and grandchildren. It appeared to be a reversal of roles with these not so young ladies—like parents coming to a school play or a little league ball game. The ladies were changing costumes after each performance—very colorful and sexy dresses. The dance gowns were a rainbow of colors, including bright purple, hot pink, flashy yellow and with feathers that shimmered. They were proudly showing off their stylish costumes. The atmosphere seemed like a mini Mardi Gras. Years seemed to be automatically erased from the women’s faces. They looked like they had temporarily recaptured their youth and were playing some type of dress up doll game—like when they were little girls. All the dancers were laughing, smiling, and having the time of their lives.
One of Steve’s fellow dance teaching buddies, Jimmy, sat down next to us. He was tall, suave, dressed in a black fitted dance pants, a black T-shirt, and had a rather wide silver-rhinestone belt buckle. He looks like he stepped out of GQ magazine.
I asked, “Are you having fun?”
“Oh yeah—this is a partttttttty. We do this about seven or eight times a year.”
Looking closer at all the dancers, I noted that each male dance teacher had a table of about six lady dance partners. The men teachers were cordial, and I was totally amazed at how, considerate, and even passionate while dancing with their lady partners. The men had no problem simulating a romantic gaze during the bolero and rumba. It seemed like they were using some type of “virtual realty visualization method”, perhaps pretending that they were dancing with their wife, girlfriend, boyfriend or the love of their life. The men dancers had plenty of camaraderie and they were all clapping, whistling, and cheering for each other. Everyone was encouraged to get excited and give it her all. A $100 cash prize was given out the most enthusiastic dancer.
Steve was a baby faced, nice looking man, and was dressed in a perfectly tailored, elegant navy tuxedo with a purple cummerbund. He looked cavalier in his dance costume. His blond hair was perfectly styled, his teeth sparkled white, and he wears light make-up. By far the smoothest and best male dancer, Steve was very friendly with everyone. He smiled constantly and had a way with all his “dance ladies”---they really seemed to just love him.
The awards ceremony was long and drawn out. Ribbons and trophies were given out for practically everything imaginable—most improved, best costume, best tango dancer, most exotic bolero dancer, and on and on.
After the award presentations, I was talking to Irene, one of Steve’s dance partners. She was very excited and had won a trophy for being the “Overall Best Dancer”. Irene said, “I’m so proud of this trophy—I just can’t believe that I won.”
I asked, “Where is your next competition?”
“West Palm Beach in a month—can’t wait. It’s the biggest dance event of the year. I’ve got a new yellow silk Latin gown that is being custom tailored for the event. It’s going to be beautiful.”
After the dance competition was over and I walked down the hotel steps back to Royal Street and began processing what all I had just experienced. These dancing ladies with their love for dance had refused to quit dancing even if they had to pay an instructor dance host to be their partner. They had not given up on life, but had discovered a way to embrace it. Their dancing had given them joy, aliveness, optimism and something to live for.
Without thinking about it, I found myself skipping and dancing my way down Royal Street.
John suggested we have dancing at our wedding, and I loved the idea. There was just one problem. I remembered very little except the basic box step for waltz. (And as it turned out in later instruction, I'd been doing that wrong as well.) 
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