(This article was originally posted to my tango baka blog, but I think the message applies to this blog, as well, so I'm cross-posting here.)
Is it wrong to try to get skilled at tango? Apparently, for some people it is. I was on a train coming home from a dance class in San Francisco when I ran into a woman whom I hadn't seen in a while. I don't remember her name now, so let's just call her Ms. Train. Anyway, she recognized me from a tango class we had both taken months earlier. Now, seated next to one another, we strike up a conversation.
Because of scheduling conflicts, Ms. Train says, she stopped going to the dance hall in Sunnyvale where we met. But, she continues, she started taking classes at another place on a different night.
She asks if I'm still dancing. This is about four or five months after I started -- well into my tango addiction. It is also around the same time I start to understand the whole concept of leading, so I'm no longer stepping on my partners' toes during each and every dance.
I'm sure visibly happy when I tell her that not only am I still taking lessons, but I'm getting increasingly confident I'm going to be pretty good at leading. Given my passion for the dance, and given my history of immersing myself in whatever I've set my heart to, I say, there's no way I'm not going to be pretty good at this.
Sagelike, she says, "The point of dancing isn't to get good, Martin. The point is about having fun."
The first thought that comes to mind is something like "Did you learn that line in grade school?" Somehow, she got it in her head that engaging in a drive to improve oneself and having fun are two mutually exclusive things. Her attitude isn't unique: I can't tell you how many times I've heard people say those words -- if not to me, then to someone within earshot.
And, honestly? The attitude confuses me.
Now, I understand there are times when people in some recreational activities get so obsessed with attaining an objective -- a trophy, prize money, fame -- that they lose sight of the enjoyment they derived from the activity when they got into it in the first place; their problem, however, is that they're beset by the same false logic as Ms. Train: They think that enjoying oneself and getting better at something are mutually exclusive.
"What if I like training?" I ask her. "And what if I have more fun doing an activity as I get better at it?"
I explain that the better I become, the more varied steps I can do. And even if I don't learn anything fancy, stepping on my partner's toes isn't my idea of having a good time. The more skilled I get the less I step on partners' toes.
"I don't mind if someone steps on my toes," she replies. "And I would expect him not to mind, either, if I stepped on his. We're there to have fun."
"So you're telling me I shouldn't try to improve?"
"You should just have fun," she says.
After a few moments, I tell her that I find a lackadaisical, happy-go-lucky approach to be unacceptable in an activity such as tango, in which so much of the enjoyment that comes from a dance is having to move in unison -- mind, body, heart -- with your partner. And gaining the ability to move in unison with a partner takes skill. You're either one of the gifted few who were born with that skill, or you're one of the countless many who need to work at it.
I understand, however, sort of, what she is saying. If someone steps on my toes I shouldn't mind, because, after all, toe-stepping is just part of the tango experience; that said, I would also expect that if I stepped on my partners' toes she wouldn't bite my head off, either. But if I knew the partner didn't care about whether she continued to step on my toes I certainly would mind; likewise I would expect her to get pissed at me if I continued carelessly to step on hers.
In short, a partner who isn't so skilled at dancing but wishes to improve is one thing, and I would gladly dance with her to the best of my ability (and hers) without hesitation. But a partner who isn't skilled and doesn't care to improve is someone who I'd rather not dance with at all. There's no point to it. It won't be fun, and there's no improvement to look forward to.
Ms. Train advocates a masturbatory mindset, one that's selfish and wholly self-gratifying. Tango is not a solo activity ... or, rather, like sex, it shouldn't be. True tango involves partners. And when each dance is begun, each side of the union should try not only have a good time, but should also try to make his or her partner's experience enjoyable as well.
I tell her about something my teacher Marcelo said to me over dinner one night.
I was telling him how, after three months of tango, I still didn't want to go to a milonga. He said I was leading well enough and wasn't sure why I was so hesitant to go. I told him that, first of all, I'm naturally shy. Second, I still felt as if I didn't have enough skill to lead a partner without screwing up big time. And third, even if I could dance a song without messing up, I didn't want to bore my partner death.
"I just want my partner to have a good time when she's dancing with me," I told him. "And I don't think I can do that yet."
He smiled at me, then replied: "Martin, with an attitude like that, I guarantee you're going to be a popular dancer. Your partners will appreciate it. That's what tango's all about ... the relationship between the partners. Just take your time."
Ms. Train had a different take on the conversation.
"I feel sorry for you," she says. "You've probably missed out on a lot of fun activities throughout your life just because you thought you weren't good at them."
I do admit that I've given up on things I felt that I wasn't good at: salsa being one of them, and of course mathematics being another. But I'm far from someone who's been too afraid to try something new. My hobbies/passions/experiences are pretty eclectic. They include 25 years of many different martial arts activities, three years of car racing, five years of living abroad in two different countries and traveling to many others, gaining the ability to converse in a couple of foreign languages, writing, wine tasting, drawing, guitar playing, and now tango.
I've had a blast doing all of the activities. No kidding, huh? I wouldn't have been doing them if I didn't find them fun. In many of the activities, I also am considered fairly accomplished: world championship appearances in three different martial arts, a world champion title in naginata, national champion titles in three martial arts, journalism awards, art contest wins, etc. Mentioning the list above was not meant to brag by any means, rather it was meant to illustrate that one can be very serious at improving in an activity and still have fun in the process. If you enjoy the process of training and practice, the accomplishments will take care of themselves.
I can accept that there are people -- Ms. Train among them -- who don't want to (and therefore don't need to) put any serious effort into improving at tango; they're perfectly content to derive whatever pleasure they can get out of the dance with only what they already know, and have no aspirations to delve deeper into an extremely deep dance. But I sure wish that those people who care nothing about improving themselves would just stop trying to convince those of us who do that mediocrity is all we should aspire to.
Is it wrong to try to get skilled at tango? Apparently, for some people it is. I was on a train coming home from a dance class in San Francisco when I ran into a woman whom I hadn't seen in a while. I don't remember her name now, so let's just call her Ms. Train. Anyway, she recognized me from a tango class we had both taken months earlier. Now, seated next to one another, we strike up a conversation.
Because of scheduling conflicts, Ms. Train says, she stopped going to the dance hall in Sunnyvale where we met. But, she continues, she started taking classes at another place on a different night.
She asks if I'm still dancing. This is about four or five months after I started -- well into my tango addiction. It is also around the same time I start to understand the whole concept of leading, so I'm no longer stepping on my partners' toes during each and every dance.
I'm sure visibly happy when I tell her that not only am I still taking lessons, but I'm getting increasingly confident I'm going to be pretty good at leading. Given my passion for the dance, and given my history of immersing myself in whatever I've set my heart to, I say, there's no way I'm not going to be pretty good at this.
Sagelike, she says, "The point of dancing isn't to get good, Martin. The point is about having fun."
The first thought that comes to mind is something like "Did you learn that line in grade school?" Somehow, she got it in her head that engaging in a drive to improve oneself and having fun are two mutually exclusive things. Her attitude isn't unique: I can't tell you how many times I've heard people say those words -- if not to me, then to someone within earshot.
And, honestly? The attitude confuses me.
Now, I understand there are times when people in some recreational activities get so obsessed with attaining an objective -- a trophy, prize money, fame -- that they lose sight of the enjoyment they derived from the activity when they got into it in the first place; their problem, however, is that they're beset by the same false logic as Ms. Train: They think that enjoying oneself and getting better at something are mutually exclusive.
"What if I like training?" I ask her. "And what if I have more fun doing an activity as I get better at it?"
I explain that the better I become, the more varied steps I can do. And even if I don't learn anything fancy, stepping on my partner's toes isn't my idea of having a good time. The more skilled I get the less I step on partners' toes.
"I don't mind if someone steps on my toes," she replies. "And I would expect him not to mind, either, if I stepped on his. We're there to have fun."
"So you're telling me I shouldn't try to improve?"
"You should just have fun," she says.
After a few moments, I tell her that I find a lackadaisical, happy-go-lucky approach to be unacceptable in an activity such as tango, in which so much of the enjoyment that comes from a dance is having to move in unison -- mind, body, heart -- with your partner. And gaining the ability to move in unison with a partner takes skill. You're either one of the gifted few who were born with that skill, or you're one of the countless many who need to work at it.
I understand, however, sort of, what she is saying. If someone steps on my toes I shouldn't mind, because, after all, toe-stepping is just part of the tango experience; that said, I would also expect that if I stepped on my partners' toes she wouldn't bite my head off, either. But if I knew the partner didn't care about whether she continued to step on my toes I certainly would mind; likewise I would expect her to get pissed at me if I continued carelessly to step on hers.
In short, a partner who isn't so skilled at dancing but wishes to improve is one thing, and I would gladly dance with her to the best of my ability (and hers) without hesitation. But a partner who isn't skilled and doesn't care to improve is someone who I'd rather not dance with at all. There's no point to it. It won't be fun, and there's no improvement to look forward to.
Ms. Train advocates a masturbatory mindset, one that's selfish and wholly self-gratifying. Tango is not a solo activity ... or, rather, like sex, it shouldn't be. True tango involves partners. And when each dance is begun, each side of the union should try not only have a good time, but should also try to make his or her partner's experience enjoyable as well.
I tell her about something my teacher Marcelo said to me over dinner one night.
I was telling him how, after three months of tango, I still didn't want to go to a milonga. He said I was leading well enough and wasn't sure why I was so hesitant to go. I told him that, first of all, I'm naturally shy. Second, I still felt as if I didn't have enough skill to lead a partner without screwing up big time. And third, even if I could dance a song without messing up, I didn't want to bore my partner death.
"I just want my partner to have a good time when she's dancing with me," I told him. "And I don't think I can do that yet."
He smiled at me, then replied: "Martin, with an attitude like that, I guarantee you're going to be a popular dancer. Your partners will appreciate it. That's what tango's all about ... the relationship between the partners. Just take your time."
Ms. Train had a different take on the conversation.
"I feel sorry for you," she says. "You've probably missed out on a lot of fun activities throughout your life just because you thought you weren't good at them."
I do admit that I've given up on things I felt that I wasn't good at: salsa being one of them, and of course mathematics being another. But I'm far from someone who's been too afraid to try something new. My hobbies/passions/experiences are pretty eclectic. They include 25 years of many different martial arts activities, three years of car racing, five years of living abroad in two different countries and traveling to many others, gaining the ability to converse in a couple of foreign languages, writing, wine tasting, drawing, guitar playing, and now tango.
I've had a blast doing all of the activities. No kidding, huh? I wouldn't have been doing them if I didn't find them fun. In many of the activities, I also am considered fairly accomplished: world championship appearances in three different martial arts, a world champion title in naginata, national champion titles in three martial arts, journalism awards, art contest wins, etc. Mentioning the list above was not meant to brag by any means, rather it was meant to illustrate that one can be very serious at improving in an activity and still have fun in the process. If you enjoy the process of training and practice, the accomplishments will take care of themselves.
I can accept that there are people -- Ms. Train among them -- who don't want to (and therefore don't need to) put any serious effort into improving at tango; they're perfectly content to derive whatever pleasure they can get out of the dance with only what they already know, and have no aspirations to delve deeper into an extremely deep dance. But I sure wish that those people who care nothing about improving themselves would just stop trying to convince those of us who do that mediocrity is all we should aspire to.
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