The tango

The Argentinian tango. That dip and sway, and turn of heads away from each other, as if the presence of the other was too much to bear. The passion caught between the side steps of the tango, a rose between his teeth. I imagined dancing with Antonio Banderas, in tight, black pants, Matador style, embroidered as having step from the bull arena onto the dance floor. And me in ruffled silk petticoats slit up to hip level, pointing a leg skyward, then caught in the dip and sway. A fairytale romance, having ridden in after a long day on the Argentinian plain. The Pampas is in his blood. But with Argentina comes the dictators and the repression. Isabel Allende wrote how the tango was banned in Chile, an in Argentina too, because of the passion it aroused and unleashed in the populace. She said, couples danced the tango in the streets, in sheer defiance, because to dance was to keep alive the memory. A pathetic act, but in this way, they kept alive that memory, and hope that that tender flame of freedom, as light tended in the secret places for the darkness of the coming years. Meanwhile, here in America on the other end of the globe, we clumsily watch the dismantling of our freedom, of our country, thinking oh, it can’t happen here on the 20th anniversary of publishing 1984. But in the ear, and the rush of blood cells tintinnabulating. It begins with the lost strains of the tango.

No date Writers’ Group