#folk dancing

chrstnejulette:

My eighth grader’s mom is in my folk dancing class. Tonight she wore a velour tracksuit with the words “#1 Public Enemy” on the chest and upper right thigh. The rest of us typically wear ill-fitting high-necked sweater and jean combinations except for the eleventh grade girl Tsveti who wears athletic tights on her perfectly formed legs and t-shirts with slogans. We’re both the quiet ones. The same lady always falls to the right of me in line. I always forget how to hold her hand; every time she fixes our hand arrangement after the first few minutes. Five times a class I ask her, what’s the name of this dance? I repeat after her. Some names I remember are Staro Bansko Horo, Shopsko Horo, Sitno Shopsko, Chichovo, Elenino; but when I hear the name afterwards I can’t think of the dance at all or remember anything about the music. Every class is one more time to hear these songs and watch my instructor’s feet and bounce or shuffle or hop along in some approximation of what he is doing, in ways I won’t remember an hour later. I watch the steam rising off his bald sweaty head. I forget to ask why he always sprinkles water on the wood floor before class. I already miss it, I haven’t even left yet.