Without giving it a whole lot of thought, I recently volunteered to help chaperone one of the teenage dances held every few months or so at West Sacramento’s River City High School, my old alma mater. I don’t know why, but I was sure that my daughter, who was a senior there, would be thrilled to hear that her busy father was finally taking an interest in some of her school activities. I even decided to surprise her with the good news at the very last moment, as she was applying the finishing touches to her makeup.
“You’re going to do what?” screamed my daughter, her facial expression full of terror.
“I’m going to help chaperone tonight’s dance,” I proudly announced again.
“Dad, you can’t do that!” she exclaimed, bending down to pick up the tube of lipstick she had just dropped. “Please, tell me you’re kidding. You’re just trying to be funny, right?”
“What’s the problem?” I asked naively.
“The problem is you’re my father! I can’t go to the dance if you’re going to be there! Please, if you did volunteer, you’ve got to call them and tell them you’ve changed your mind.”
“But I can’t do that,” I said. “The dance is going to start in less than an hour, and they’re counting on me being there to help out.”
“Well, if you’re going to go to the dance, I’m sure not!”
“But why?” I asked.
She slowly shook her head from side to side and signed deeply obviously disappointed with the fact that her father just didn’t have a clue.
“Look honey”, I said. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll sit somewhere where no one can even see me. You won’t even know that I’m there.”
“Dad,” she pleaded, “please, please don’t do this to me. I’m already so nervous about going to this dance I’m probably going to throw up before my date even gets here.”
“But it’ll be fun,” I said, trying to cheer her up. “Hey, maybe we could even have a dance together?”
“Mother!” screamed my daughter as she grabbed her skirt and raced off barefooted in search of someone who just might be able to explain the facts of teenage life to me.
The last time I had attended a dance at River City High School was the spring of 1965, and it was called James Marshall High School, and judging from my daughter’s reaction, the world was apparently a much simpler place. Anyway, not wanting to embarrass her anymore than necessary, I broke out my A-outfit, shined my best shoes, and got to the high school in plenty of time to find a little out-of-the-way place to sit where I would be as inconspicuous as humanly possible.
Upon arriving, my first surprise was that the dance was being held in the school cafeteria instead of the gymnasium. Slightly disappointed, I asked myself how in the world they could possibly hold a really good high school dance without sawdust to slide around on or the distinctive sweat-like smells of a gymnasium?
I found myself an uncomfortable folding chair and plopped down in the shadows next to one of the huge speakers a hyper young disc jockey had just finished setting up for the music he was about to play.
As energetic, colorfully dressed teenagers began to crowd into the dimly lit cafeteria, I leaned further back into my hiding place and told myself that maybe this wasn’t going to be as bad as I thought. But then it started. One loud, verbally incomprehensible rap song after another. All with the same hard-driving beat, and all played at the same painful decibel level.
I tried to turn my attention to the dancers, but there were none. Five rap songs agonizingly passed, then another ten, and still no one was doing anything except standing around in small groups trying in vain to hear each other talk.
I looked around for another hiding place not so close to a speaker, but there were none. It was either stay where I was and hope that the ear damage wouldn’t be permanent, or step out of the shadows, where my daughter would surely spot me and die of embarrassment.
A good hour into the dance-not, a group of courageous boys with strange looking hair and baggy pants finally ventured out onto the dance floor and began performing little break-dancing routines for each other. Very interesting, I thought to myself, but the evening was almost half over, and I had yet to see one boy hold one girl in his arms.
So, I closed my eyes and let myself drift all the way back to some of the high school dances of my youth. Every fast dance was usually followed by a slow one, and as my mind’s ear happily recalled some of the great melodies and lyrics of that long ago time, I could almost see me and some of my old friends shuffling around out on the slippery dance floor doing our best rendition of the West Sac two-step. And what wonderful couples they were. John and Cheryl, Billy and Karen, Jim and Alice, Guyburt and Jan, Charlie and Donna, all dancing cheek-to-cheek, holding each other as tightly as they could gently swaying back and forth, whispering and laughing.
I believe “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” by the Platters was playing softly in my faraway ears when I suddenly felt a gentle tap on my shoulder.
“Okay, okay,” said my daughter, dressed up so pretty and smelling just as good as the girl I was dancing with in my mind, “you wanna dance or not?”
“It’s been a long time,” I said. “And what will all of your friends and your date think?”
“Come on,” she said as she grabbed my hand and smiled the very same exact smile which had first captured my heart when she was only a few months old, “I’ll chance it.”