Dancing the Plight Away

It was, to speak euphemistically, the Deadline from The Underworld. With just a week to go before sending the January 1992 issue of Sojourners to press, we changed the contents of the feature section. Then news editor Brian Jaudon got the flu. And though Jim Wallis had written his "On The Way" column more or less on time, the news about Magic Johnson broke and required a last-minute change in topic.

We had to come up with names for five new departments making their debut in 1992, and our wider margins threw off all our article-length calculations. Plus, we needed extra time to write a back-page ad that would creatively and with only mild desperation ask for your financial help once again.

Karen Lattea couldn't get Bruce Cockburn's people in Canada to send us a copy of his new release, so we had to rely on former Sojourners intern Suzanne St. Yves to buy it in Winnipeg and send it to us. And, in an unprecedented move, we sent Ed Spivey Jr.'s "H'rumphs" column into "read-around" among the staff so we could make a judgment on whether it was hilarious or offensive (hilarious won).

And speaking of offensive, Bob Hulteen's editorial about sports teams' stereotyping of American Indians begged for a graphic portrayal of the Cleveland Indians' horrible "Chief Wahoo" logo. Jim Rice spent hours on a thorough search of the sporting goods stores of Washington, only to settle for an equally offensive logo from a Redskins "On the Warpath" T-shirt.

But this, of course, was only the human error. Let's not forget the computers. We scanned by computer the annually required "Statement of Ownership" that appeared on page 48. It came out as "Statement of Ownerslilip," with "Jim Walls" as editor and a typo in almost every one of those gazillion pesky little numbers you have to include. But even more interesting was Joe Nangle's printout of his lectionary piece. It turned out to be 187 pages long, with all the addresses gathered from "Let Justice Roll" tours across the country appearing over and over again between his lectionary copy.

By 5 o'clock on deadline day, we had a magazine with eight empty pages. We didn't care. We went dancing.

WE ALL GOT LOST somewhere in the maze of skyscrapers near the Pentagon called Crystal City. And with rush-hour traffic to battle and a stop for nachos at Elizabeth Holler's apartment, we didn't make it to GW's in Alexandria, Virginia, until about 8 o'clock--an hour after the lessons had begun.

They were already well into the Texas Two-step by the time we arrived--men on one side of the dance floor and women on the other, cowboy hats and boots in profusion. Our very presence announced that we were amateurs. Jim Wallis came closest to looking authentic, with his "Crocodile Dundee" Australian hat, and square-toed boots bought in, oh, the Early Medieval Age.

Carey Burkett, who has Western roots and feet that move better than most of the rest of us, jumped right in and did just fine. "How hard can it be?" we foolishly asked ourselves.

So we danced down the center of the floor two at a time with whatever partner happened to be there when we got to the top of the line. Of course, women have a disadvantage in that we have to dance backwards. But my first partner was very sensitive. He quietly called out the "quick, quick, slo-o-ow, slo-o-ow" rhythm of the steps--and then said gently at the end, "Maybe you should come at 7 o'clock next time."

OK, so we weren't great at the Two-step. But we were sure we would shine on the line dance. The caller got all the women out on the dance floor first. He's what you think of when they say "long tall Texan" (though for all I know he's from Fairfax or Bethesda)--rattlesnakeskin boots (that slide as if the snakes are still alive), a wizened face with drooping mustache, and a voice that lilts in a gruff sort of way. He called out "toe in-toe out" and "kick-ball-chain" as if we had a clue.

He had the patience of a Cowboy Job--until the one-and-a-quarter turn and we all ended up facing every point on the compass (and I mean even those little bitty ones like north-north-west) and it began to feel like a human stampede. "Ladies, ladies, ladies" was all he said and went back to calling out the steps.

I think I personally really would have liked "kick-ball-chain" if I had ever had a chance to do it--but it was always gone before I got there. And, well, I don't know, the stomp at the end loses something when you're flapping the air with Reeboks or Birkenstocks instead of crashing to the ground with snakeskin boots.

The men, I must say, did no better (I'm being gentle here). But, by the end of the lesson, when the live band came out, we actually had improved quite a bit--and could at least be seen rocking back and forth in time on the six beats when that's all you had to do.

"I wonder if line dances have particular names," Karen Lattea asked, just as the caller yelled out "The Toothbrush" and all the experienced dancers got out there and did another one. (We learned later it was actually called "The Push-Push," but, really, what's the difference?)

We promised one another to work on our Western wardrobes. We'll be back. But, in the meantime, it's on to Blob's Polka Park in Jessup, Maryland, next month.

Joyce Hollyday was associate editor of Sojourners when this article appeared.