Friday, March 30, 2007

Daddy Daughter Dance

There’s a little girl over there, eleven years old, sitting alone in her new dress at the daddy daughter dance.  She looks like she’s eating her two cookies.  But she’s really watching the other girls dancing under the balloons with the men.  “May I have this dance?” I ask the girl.  She gets busy with her cookies.  “Not now, dad.”

We’re inside the Century Center at the annual South Bend Parks Department event.  Hundreds of daughters each receive a silver tiara and a white sash with the word “Princess” stenciled on it, draped over satin gowns and velvet prom dresses.  Blonde hair, red hair and kinky black hair all done up over shining eyes in a cloud of herbal shampoo and corsages.  And the dads!  A black dad in a powder blue suit with blue hat, blue tie and blue shoes; a white dad in a four hundred dollar lawyer suit; a barrel-chested Hispanic dad in Adidas gear; and a barely twenty hip-hop dad, with a clean shirt tail hanging out, cap on sideways and dark wraparound shades.

The DJ cues up Mambo No. 5 and every single couple is moving on the dance floor.  Uh oh--the big Hispanic dad just backed right into the hip hop dad.  They stop.  Then each man holds up a hand, “Eh sorry man, my fault.” “Yo, no, my fault, brother.” My daughter watches a girl spin.  “I could show you how to do that,” I say.  She grabs her plastic punch glass.  “Not yet, dad.” Out in the foyer couples wait in line for photos in a white horse-drawn carriage.  One dad makes four trips up and down the carriage step, one for each of his daughters.

Now everyone’s flapping elbows to the Chicken Dance, the little girls in stocking feet.  I worry about the time, and if my daughter’s having fun.  The hip hop dad fishes a Kleenex out of his baggy pants, bends down and wipes his little girl’s nose.

Then, with just twelve minutes left, my daughter says, “I’m ready to dance now.” I jump up and head toward the middle of the floor but she pulls back hard on my hand.  “Here,” she says, teetering on the dizzy edge of both the dance floor and womanhood.  I realize she’s never actually been on a dance floor with a man before.  But soon she’s moving, then smiling, then shouting, “Dad, watch my dress!” as she spins right out of my hands.

When the DJ announces the closing slow dance, I expect her to bolt.  But cautiously she comes closer.  I show her where to put her arms, and we dance. As we slowly turn I see the Hispanic guy has the tiara on his head now, the lawyer is moving like Fred Astaire, and the hip hop guy has his shades off, all melting in the arms of our precious, precious girls.

And we fathers know exactly what’s going to happen.  We’re going to blink, and we’ll be at her wedding dance.  And younger, stronger men will take our places.  But not yet.  Right now, we’ve entered the Great Hall, and left our swords and our burdens outside the door.  All this muscle, all these tribes, all these Big Chiefs.  Brought together not by a ball game, not by a business deal, not by a war.  We were brought together by little girls.

My daughter and I hustle back to the car, it’s ten degrees and dark.  We pause at the light.  The princess looks straight into the wind.  Then she says, “Thanks for taking me to the dance, dad.”

And inside the Big Chief’s chest, his heart soars like an eagle.

Broadcast by Jeff Nixa on March 30, 2007
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