“Have you ballroom danced before?” a girl
asked, as we waited outside the studio door.
I shook my head, a reluctant smile appearing
on my face. “Not yet, but I am about to.”
In my creased, worn, white sneakers, I walked
toward the mirror room of the Central Campus
Recreation Building, my body excited and ner-
vously brimming with anticipation. The dimly lit
space was perfumed with sweat and rubber, the
clatter of heels against the hardwood floor sur-
face, a clock in the back ticking softly. The glim-
mer of the moon shone softly over Palmer Field
and against the wall, reflecting in the mirror.
Coming in with my lint-ridden sweats and
creased shoes, I felt underdressed as I looked
at the surrounding dancers. Their flowy skirts,
high stiletto heels, ironed suits and black ties
made the blaring coffee stain on my Michigan
shirt even more apparent.
I hesitantly glanced at the time on my watch:
8 p.m. The Michigan Ballroom Dance Team was
offering free newcomer lessons for the month of
September in hopes of recruiting people to their
team. And while there was no way that I could be
a part of the team (my lack of rhythm and inflex-
ibility account for that), there was also no way
that I could pass up the opportunity to partake
in a free session.
***
My relationship with dancing has always
been one of apprehension
of apprehension, but also of discrete
fondness. Since I’m
Since I’m of Nigerian heritage, danc-
ing is a tremendous
tremendous part of my culture and cel-
ebrations. During
During birthday bashes, ladies in their
cloth wraps and men in their suits stomp their
feet to the Naija beats, the cling-clang of
drums swaying their bodies as they move
their legs back and forth.
Throughout my life, I have tried to
mimic those moves, yet something is
always off. My feet seem to lag as I
stomp to the beat of the music, my
tempo becomes a muddle as
I lose track of which limb
performs what move and
my arms become so stiff
that they stick like glue to
the sides of my waist.
Yet I honestly love to dance.
There is something so freeing about
the
movement of letting yourself sway to the sound
of the music, something so spiritual about float-
ing atop a rhythmic line, with no gravity or
weight holding you down.
With something like ballroom dancing — a
highly technical and competitive dance that
combines multiple styles from around the world,
including the cha cha from Cuba, the samba
from Brazil and the Pasodoble from Southern
France — it is safe to say that I was nervous at the
thought of trying to learn how to move my feet
correctly in the first steps of the dance.
dance.
“Welcome!
“Welcome! Are you guys ready?” And with
that, we
that, we began
began the proceedings of our magical
escapade back
escapade back to the 16th century, the supposed
time period when the first account of ballroom
dancing was recorded.
The history of ballroom dancing
is said have begun in Europe, par-
ticularly in Germany. While visiting
Augsburg, Michel de Montaigne,
an important philosopher of the
French Renaissance, accounted
for a dance where people
were so close that their
faces
touched.
These
dances were often per-
formed by lower-class indi-
viduals; however, as the
popularity and complexity
of these styles evolved, they eventually became a
marker of high social status.
The development and standardization of this
dance continued until the 19th and 20th centu-
ries, when styles such as waltz, tango, quickstep
and foxtrot began to emerge and were performed
competitively. This art style slowly permeated
from the boundaries of Europe to the climbing
towers and bright lights of New York City, as a
dance style known as the “swing,” created and
popularized by African Americans in Harlem,
began to emerge in America.
And here I stood, four centuries after this
dance’s advent in the mirrored, strangely somber
CCRB dance studio, about to test the limits of my
self-sanity and limb coordination.
All 40 of us were instructed to form two
groups facing each other on either side of the
room; the “leads” and the “follows.” Typically,
leads are more masculine-presenting partici-
pants that “lead” the dance by choosing the steps
and often initiate the stylistic techniques such as
the twirls or the dips, while the follow synchro-
nizes with their footwork. I migrated toward the
follow side, hoping my inability to stand on my
two feet would be overshadowed by someone
else’s talent.
Two of the ballroom dance club leaders took
the center stage of the room, separated by the
sea of anticipating newcomers, impatient inter-
mediates and the watchful advanced. Dancing
by ourselves at first, we started with a “simple”
three-count rhythm; right leg to the front — to
the middle — to the back — side step, to the mid-
dle — to the front — repeat.
I think that one of the easiest things to do
on a college campus is ignore people — I know
this because it’s something I do all the time.
When I’m going to class, or to a friend’s house,
or even just wandering around campus and
enjoying the fall, I do it all with my AirPods
in. I put my hood up, walk at a decent speed
and, frankly, do everything I can to ignore
those trying to get my attention.
And as a college student, there are quite
literally hundreds of people on this campus
who are trying to get your attention, from one
end of the Diag to the other. Every single day,
you and I walk past voter registration drivers,
the Jehovah’s Witness missionaries, the stu-
dent organization advocates, the blood drive
people and, of course, and more rarely, the
preachers with comically large signs telling
us that we’re all going to hell. And like me,
I’m sure you do your best to ignore them. You
probably avoid eye contact, quicken your pace
and pray that you don’t have to interact.
But there’s a part of me that really, real-
ly respects what these people are doing.
Because every single day, these people are
ignored, and even accosted by tens of thou-
sands of students who unequivocally don’t
want to deal with them. But every day, they
keep coming back — and there’s a part of me
that is deeply intrigued by that fortitude.
On an ideological level, I don’t agree with
most of them, nor do I desire to adopt their
practices. I am, however, interested in them
as people. What brings them back? Why do
they brave the cold and rain to sell, or preach,
or offer something to students who have
repeatedly said that they don’t care?
So, for a weekend, I decided I’d change up
my routine. I took my AirPods out, kept my
head up, made eye contact and immersed
myself in conversation with everyone I found
on the Diag who wanted my attention —
everyone I was used to ignoring.
***
The more you talk with people soliciting
just about anything on campus, the more
you quickly come to realize that these people
aren’t faint of heart — because they can’t be.
I think the best example of this necessary
resilience is the Jehovah’s Witnesses, at least
two of whom can be found from 7 a.m. to 8
p.m., seven days a week, standing somewhere
on the Diag beside a small cart filled with
flyers about finding eternal life. They never
approach students on campus, or call out to
them, or yell. They just stand there, smiling,
waiting for us to talk to them.
But we very rarely do. I remember that the
first time I approached the group earlier this
year, they seemed almost surprised when I
asked them for their elevator pitch and looked
around for a moment to see who would take
the lead before they responded.
Once they got started, though, their pitch
rarely changed. They worked in shifts, and so
in each of the four conversations I had with
them, I talked to new people. But in every
conversation, many things stayed the same.
They were always well dressed — men in suits
and ties, women in dresses — they always
characterized their faith as an analytical,
objective interpretation of the Bible and they
were always incredibly kind to me (with the
caveat being that my identity as a cisgender,
straight male made that easy).
Yet what I was most interested in wasn’t
their faith in Jehovah, but rather their faith
in the process of evangelization. In one con-
versation I had, I asked if anyone had talked
to them in their three-hour shift. They said
no, chuckling, but remarked with a light smile
that they had been talked at, likely meaning
they were heckled.
When I talked to them one last time that
weekend in 40-degree weather and rain, they
smiled and said that they were used to being
ignored. And the last man I talked to said
that working in sales had hardened him and
that he wasn’t affected by rejection. They all
understand that quite literally, 99% of those
passing by will act like they don’t exist, but
they remain standing, in freezing tempera-
tures and in stoic postures, for the one person
who might.
Every Jehovah’s Witness I talked to that
weekend mentioned that they found the
religion through their family. But one of the
women told me that her mother, a devout
Catholic, had been converted because some-
one knocked on her door. This means that of
the group of 10 who I talked to that weekend,
only one had a personal experience of being
converted, and it was tangential. But their
faith in the process was unwavering.
That’s what fascinates me most about
every canvasser on this campus who keeps
showing up despite the constant rejection:
it’s that they never lose faith in the numbers
game. And that extends beyond religious out-
reach.
Rob Sweet, a canvasser who registers pass-
ersby to vote in Michigan, explained his per-
sonal experience to me simply.
3 — Wednesday, October 26, 2022 // The Statement
Canvassing the canvassers —
Evangelicals, voting drives and more
Waltzing my way through ballroom dance history
BY CHARLIE PAPPALARDO, STATEMENT COLUMNIST
BY CHINWE ONWERE,
STATEMENT COLUMNIST
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
Voters cast their ballots early for
the upcoming elections in UMMA
Monday, October 24.
GRACE LAHTI/Daily
Ray Jin gracefully dips Erica Santos in one of the night’s
performances Thursday, September 29.
MARIA DECKMANN/Daily