two-beer Marcus (blog #24)

All other things being equal, I like Two-Beer Marcus better than I like Sober Marcus. Two-Beer Marcus is more authentic–more relaxed, more friendly, and more confident. And, at least in his opinion, he’s pretty damn funny. Sober Marcus, on the other hand, is often uptight, shy, and hesitant. I guess this is because he tends to take himself pretty seriously and is often concerned about what other people think, particularly at dance events. But Two-Beer Marcus doesn’t give a fuck. (T.B.M.D.G.A.F.)

Before we go any further–and in the spirit of honesty–One-Beer Marcus is typing now. (He’s not so bad.)

My intention with this post is not to discuss the benefits (and obvious drawbacks) of drinking. Rather, what I’d like to point out is that I think sometimes a couple of beers can let you know what’s lurking just below the surface. To quote my therapist, “Alcohol reveals what sobriety conceals.” (She typically uses this line if I’ve told her about someone who got drunk and hit on me, or someone else who got drunk and acted like a real tool bag, but I think it can be applied positively.) What I like about this theory is that, apparently, just below the surface is a guy I really like, a guy who’s more honest with himself and everyone else, a guy who’s not such a stick-in-the-mud. And whereas there’s part of me that wishes I could just drink a couple of beers every day in order to calm all my social anxieties, there’s an even bigger part of me that knows that could turn into a real problem. I mean, beer has a lot of calories, and I’d eventually have to buy new pants, and that’s something I, my wallet, and my pride are NOT okay with.

Speaking of needing to buy new pants, I just sat down on the floor–and it wasn’t easy. As I sit here, the final dance at Sunflower Swing is in progress. It’s at a place called Care to Dance, and it’s maybe my favorite dance venue so far–mostly because there are mirrors in the room. (I’m pretty famous for looking at myself in the mirror when I dance, so I’m in heaven now.) And whereas I’ve been accused of being vain–and I am–what I like about the mirrors is that they offer me immediate feedback on my dancing, and I almost always come away feeling better than I do without mirrors. If the point hasn’t already been made and belabored this weekend, I’m usually running a low level of “beating myself up” or “feeling insecure.” But when I look in the mirror, I actually like what I see. It’s better than the me that’s in my head.

I think that as a general rule, I blow a lot of smoke up my own ass. Like, I gan five pounds, and I think I’m SO FAT or SO UNATTRACTIVE and I’M SO SORRY you have to even look at me. Or I mess up a dance move or don’t dance like THAT GUY, so I think that the person I’m dancing with is probably bored, really inconvenienced by having to hold my hand for three minutes. Well, just a couple of beers (and two easy payments of $4.99), and that voice in my head gets a lot quieter. Or just a quick look in the mirror and (most the time), I get closer to the truth–I haven’t completely let myself go, and my dancing is more polished than I give myself credit for.

I once had a friend–who’s older than I am–ask me if I thought she was pretty. (There’s only one socially acceptable answer to this awkward question, right?) When I told my therapist about the situation, I think she rolled her eyes. She said, “By this point in my life, I know what I got, and I know what I don’t got.” So when it comes to things like how I look or how I dance, she says the goal is to take an honest, accurate assessment, to not make myself more than I am, but not make myself less than I am either.

Ultimately, I think the closer a person gets to his or her authentic self, the labels of more than or less than seriously start to fall away. When you’re authentic, your authenticity is enough. You don’t need to compare. And that’s what I think the value of Two-Beer Marcus is. (He doesn’t G.A.F., remember?) More specifically, he lets me know that I’m capable of being more relaxed, friendly, and confident. I mean, those qualities have always been there, or they couldn’t come out after a couple of drinks. And honestly, especially since starting therapy three years ago, I’m more of all those things than I used to be, even without the beer. And whereas it may not be perfection (whatever that is), it’s certainly progress.

[P.S. One-beer Marcus may have started this article, but Sober Marcus finished it, and he resents being called a stick-in-the-mud.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can be weird here. You can be yourself.

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well, that was awkward (blog #23)

marcus coker and megan p at sunflower swing, 2017

Once again, I’m coming to you live from a big swing dance in Wichita. (Can’t you feel the excitement?) The dance is being held at the local Shriner’s…uh…shrine, and the ballroom is on the second floor, and the floor is literally shaking, bouncing up and down like a dime store pony. Earlier I had a vision, like, what would I do if the floor collapsed? In my fantasy, I’d jump up and grab a chandelier, and think, That was close, but the truth is that I’d probably just fall to my death and (on the way down) think, I wish I hadn’t had that pizza for dinner.

Last night Megan and I stayed up pretty late. I was blogging, and she was uploading pictures from the dance. You can find them here if you’re curious. Anyway, somehow we started talking about awkward situations at dances. I told her that my standard thing to do after a dance is over is to clap my hands together two or three times like a little girl and say, “YEAAAAAAAH!” And then I say, “Thank you for the dance” and run away because I don’t do so great with strangers and small talk. After “Where are you from?” and “What do you do?” I’m pretty much toast.

Once I told my therapist about a situation where I’d been spending a lot of time with one of my friends, and I ended up saying that I needed some space. So the next time I saw them, it felt really (like, really, really) awkward. And this is what my therapist said–“So let it be awkward. It’s probably them more than it is you.” And it was like this big revelation for me–let it be awkward–that it was okay for there to be tension in the air and it wouldn’t cause me to combust.

So I was telling Megan about how awkward I often feel when I try to make small talk with someone when a dance is over, how it often feels like I’m trying to force a connection that’s just not there, like the other person is giving me nothing to work with. And she said, “A lot of dancers are awkward.”

AND ALL GOD’S PEOPLE SAID, “AMEN!”

I mean, is she right, or she right?

“A lot of dancers are awkward.”

marcus coker and megan p at sunflower swing, 2017

For whatever reason, this was like big news to me. Not that I didn’t know it before, but I just hadn’t applied it to my interactions. Instead, I was taking full responsibility for every bit of small talk and conversation–asking twenty questions, afraid of just a moment of silence. I was too afraid to let things be awkward.

So my take away from the conversations with my therapist and Megan was that it’s not just me (it’s you). Any conversation is two people, just like any dance is two people. And if things aren’t clicking, if things aren’t going well, sure, part of the responsibility is mine, but not all of it. The other person plays a part too. So my new goal, at least for tonight, is simply to be honest with myself–I’m getting along with this person, or I’m not. And whereas it may be awkward for a moment if we’re not connecting, it’s not bad. It’s just something to blog about later.

[Thanks again to Megan for the photos tonight (and the great, non-awkward dances and conversations). And to Nikki who actually took the photos.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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If anything is ever going to change for the better, the truth has to come first.

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there’s plenty of room here (blog #22)

At this moment, it’s a quarter ’til midnight, and I’m in Wichita, Kansas, which the locals say is “Wichitawesome.” (Isn’t that adorable? I think it’s a lot better than the one my friend Craig came up with for Fort Smith, which is “Fort Smith—It’s okay.”) I drove up earlier today for a Lindy Hop weekend called Sunflower Swing, and it’s going on now. The ballroom has started to thin a bit, but it’s still full, and the sounds of jazz skip across the floor, as do the dancers.

My typical experience watching Lindy Hop dancers is twofold. On one hand, I’m completely inspired by the talent, creativity, and—at the very least—enthusiasm. But if you haven’t met me, I tend to be pretty judgmental, which means I either end up feeling better than every one else, or feeling like everyone else is better than I am. Facebook reminded me today of a quote, I think by Eckhart Tolle, that goes something like, “When you feel better than or less than someone else, that’s your ego.” So my ego is definitely here tonight. I mean, I don’t remember inviting him, but I guess it’s good to know he hasn’t gone anywhere. He’s nothing if not loyal.

On the way here, I stopped in Tulsa to see my friends Gregg and Rita. They’re probably the Lindy Hop friends I’ve known the longest, and two of the coolest. And although they are lovely dancers, that’s not why I love them. Rather, I love them because they love the dance and love other people. Plus, they’re just amazing. Rita used to dance for Disney, and Gregg used to ice skate and teach blind people how to snow ski. And I guess when I dance with them, my ego gets quiet because the joy I feel dancing with my friends is louder than my ego could ever be. Today we even danced in Panera Bread.

It’s like I always have this moment that I’m having right now at dance weekends. I’m having fun, and then my ego pops up out of nowhere, like, HEEEEEEY, I’m over here! And then he starts telling me how great I am (which feels pretty good), and then he sucker punches me and tells me I’m not as perfect as someone else seems to be. (Rude, I know. Total party crasher. Bad form.) And it usually just takes a few hours for me to convince him once again that we’re just fine, it’s only a dance, and he’s welcome to go sit against the wall with the other nerds.

My therapist says I have an abundance issue and that I’m pretty focused on scarcity. (I’m working on it.) Usually this is in the context of money, but she says that if you’re into scarcity, it’s across the board. Like, sometimes I think, Where’s all the sex? (See, scarcity. But really, where is it?) So for the last thirty minutes, I’ve been thinking about this whole ego, comparison, who’s-the-better-dancer bullshit in terms of abundance and scarcity. I’m thinking that I’m approaching the matter as if there’s not enough talent to go around, that if someone else is succeeding or doing well, that somehow diminishes me and my success. (This dance floor’s not big enough for the both of us!)

When I look at it on paper, it sounds kind of ridiculous. (Silly ego.) Still, it’s how I feel–sometimes. My therapist says that when you feel like there’s not enough of something to go around, that’s the time to open up. That’s the time to give–give thanks, give money, give your talents. So during this period of my life when it feels like I don’t have a lot of stuff (did I mention that I sold it all?), or a job, or a plan, or a six-pack, I’ve been trying–trying–to open up to the idea that there is abundance here somewhere. (Hello! Where are you hiding, abundance?)

Well, so far what I’ve come up with is that I have an abundance of time. I don’t have a deadline to move out of my parents’ house. I get to sleep in every day. I get to do whatever the hell I want, whenever I want. And a lot of people aren’t in that situation. So I can give my time to my friends, and I can listen. I also have an abundance of talent. (I used to think this was bragging, but my therapist says it’s just a fact.) As Craig says, I “suffer from doing a number of things well.” So that means that I can give my writing to this blog and to anyone who reads it. I can give my dance knowledge to my students, or kids like the ones at last week’s dance who wanted to learn more. I can help my parents out with odd jobs around the house, like fixing the garage door, since they are unable to do it for themselves.

But back to the dance tonight, which is now over. (My friend Megan, whom I’m staying with, and I left the first venue when it closed, went back to her house, grabbed some food–food always helps–then went to the second venue. And now we’re back at her house where I can use the internet, which means I don’t have to upload this entire blog from my phone. More abundance. There’s internet IN THE AIR.) As I think about it now, there was an abundance of talent tonight, more than enough to go around. And there was an abundance of room, not just room to move around in, but room for every single person, including me, to grow and learn in. And there was room for my ego to show up, and room for us to sort things out. There was room for my mood to improve, dip back down for a while, then pop back up again.

I guess no one comes into this life knowing how to dance, always moving with grace. No, at best we stumble along, often forgetting there’s room for that too.

[Special thanks to my friend Megan for hosting me, taking the two photos of me dancing at the top of this blog, and for the great dances and conversation tonight. Your abundant generosity sent my ego running.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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If another's perspective, another's story about you is kinder than the one you're telling yourself, surely that's a story worth listening to.

"

my friend Paul (blog #20)

For as long as I’ve had a computer, I’ve saved just about everything. For almost twenty years, I’ve neatly organized thousands of photos, dance videos, promotional materials, and stories I’ve written, and before I had my estate sale last year, I put them all on an external hard drive with the intent of backing everything up online, almost four terabytes of worth of data. But before that could happen, I dropped the damn hard drive on my driveway and broke it.

I took the hard drive to a repair shop, and the guy did the best he could, but said I’d have to send it off. He said that used to, if part of a hard drive broke, you could just replace that part. But he said that companies got wise, and in order to make more money, they started assigning all the parts a code, and all the codes have to match. So he said I could probably still recover the data, but it could cost up to $1,500 in order to purchase the codes.

I’ve been in this mode lately of trying to think of my life as more mystical, more connected to the universe. And part of my having the estate sale was to demonstrate in a rather dramatic way that I was willing to let go and start a new life. So I kind of took the hard drive drop as the universe saying, “Let go more.” And although many times over the last several months I’ve had moments that looked a lot like, “Oh no, that story I wrote about my mom was on there,” I mostly have reminded myself to keep breathing. As my therapist says, “There’s nothing wrong with this moment.”

Well, I had a moment last week that I thought was definitely wrong, and it’s the moment I realized that the only photo I had of Paul was on that hard drive, and that thought made me really sad. Of all the files, I thought, it’s the only one that really mattered.

***

I met Paul Montgomery in December of 2006, a little over two months after I first opened my dance studio, Momentum Dance Concepts, in Van Buren. I was still living with Mom and Dad (like now), and I was in the kitchen when he called. He introduced himself as another dance instructor, said he lived in Fort Smith, I think, and asked if we could get together to “talk shop.”

So we met at Western Sizzlin in Fort Smith.

As it turns out, Paul had heard about me and the studio while he was eating at Firehouse Subs. Before I opened the studio, I’d taught dance at Mercy Fitness Center, and two of my students, apparently, worked at Firehouse Subs. Well, they were excited about swing dancing, and maybe they were talking about it, or maybe they were practicing behind the deli counter, and Paul asked them where they learned, and they told him about me. Random, I know.

Whenever I saw Paul, he almost always looked the same: dark pants, nothing fancy, always a mustache, sometimes a ball cap. I figured he was twenty or thirty years my senior. I was twenty-six.

I don’t remember what I ordered to eat that day at Western Sizzlin, but I remember Paul saying something like, “That sounds good, make it two,” and he bought lunch. As I recall, we talked for three hours, and although it was readily apparent that Paul’s experience in the world of ballroom dancing far surpassed mine, I never felt condescended to. Instead, I felt shared with and taught. He explained professional competitions. He drew a diagram of Line of Dance (the invisible oval that goes counterclockwise around the dance floor, used for Waltz, Foxtrot, Two-Step, etc.) on a lavender sheet of paper, pointing out how everything related to that line, the four walls of the room, and the center of the floor. For over ten years, I kept that sheet in a folder with other important dance notes at the studio.

Paul and I bonded quickly. We spent a lot of time at the studio, and he started working with me professionally, teaching me patterns and techniques in Cha Cha and Jive. He taught my friend Fern and me how to Quickstep. I remember having so much fun. When my life-long friend Malia (another dance instructor) and I were getting ready for a swing dance performance, Paul worked with us to clean things up, gave us pointers to make things sparkle. Both Malia and I kept asking all these questions—What about this?—What about that? And every time Paul just said, “I’ll take care of you.” And then he’d say it again, “I’ll take care of you.”

I know that sometimes I paid Paul for teaching me, but sometimes I didn’t. I also know that what I did give him was probably a fraction of what he charged other people, certainly a fraction of what he was worth. I mean, Paul had made a living teaching other professional teachers. And whereas I was able to offer the studio to him to teach some of his existing clients, it was still a far cry from a balanced deal.

Several years ago, I got into a conversation with my friend Justin. I think it had to do with a relationship I was in. (See “a Mexican soap opera.” It was that guy.) Anyway, Justin said, “Marc (a few people get to call me Marc), in this life there are givers and takers.” I nodded my head. And then Justin said, “You’re a taker.” Well, I’m not sure that’s true, at least all the time. Who would admit that? I think everyone is both at one point or another. But when it came to Paul, I was definitely the taker, or perhaps better stated, the recipient of his generosity.

Paul and I saw each other at least once a week. He seemed really private, rather mysterious. It was pretty obvious that he drove a beat-up car, what was once probably a lovely color of gold. And I gathered that he stayed maybe in a garage apartment with a friend who was a pastor, that he taught dance in Fort Smith, but I guess out of town too, since he sometimes went to Tulsa. For a while, I kind of wondered if he was a spy, or maybe a guardian angel of some sort, since he was so cloak-and-dagger and didn’t seem to have a phone number. I mean, he would always call me to set things up, but I never had a number to call him back.

As the weeks went by, Paul started to say more about himself. He’d been in a car accident, I think. There was maybe a lawsuit. And maybe the accident was the reason he’d stopped dancing for a while, sold all his competition clothes. And now he was getting back into it. So I started thinking he was a real person, not someone who walked through walls after we finished our mozzarella sticks at the restaurant just up the street from the studio. I remember around Christmas, Paul talked about his family, which he didn’t normally do. He said they’d all get together for the holidays, and each of his siblings would come with a talent—singing, dancing, I don’t know, magic tricks. I thought it sounded glorious, since my family didn’t do that.

In January of 2006, I attended a reunion for a summer camp I used to work at in Mississippi. I remember getting sick when I was there, starting to lose my voice. But I just kept using it because I was so excited to see my friends. Here’s a picture of a group of us that entertained the campers back in the day as The Campstreet Boys. This was taken just after we performed our comeback tour at the reunion.

When I got back from Mississippi, I remember getting together with Paul. He’d copied off a couple pages from a natural healing book or something. It was information about olive leaf extract. I don’t remember it helping, but that sort of thing was right up my alley back then, and I loved that we had that in common and that, once again, he wanted to help me.

I watched a video online today about a marketing guru. He was taking calls from people, fielding questions. And it’s just the guy’s personality, and I think he’s really smart, but he was practically shouting every answer. And it made me think that it really didn’t matter what he was saying, it sounded convincing. Well, Paul, didn’t shout, ever, but he had this way of delivering information that ensured maximum impact and memorability. Once we were standing outside in the cold, and I guess I’d thought we’d only talk for a moment, but it ended up being over an hour. So we were both shivering, and then Paul said, “Did you know that if a person is stuck in absolute freezing temperature that there’s a way he can heat his body to the point of sweating, entirely on his own?” And I was fascinated, thinking it was probably something monks or Jedis do, but Paul said just said goodnight and walked away. He never told me the answer.

In February, I remember going to IHOP with Paul. I know exactly what booth it was. It was one of our marathon conversations, and the waitress kept coming over, interrupting, asking Paul if he wanted more to drink. So finally Paul says, “Tell you what, don’t come back over here. If I want more to drink, I’ll flag you.” So she walks off, and Paul’s face breaks into this big smile, his teeth framed underneath his dark mustache.

And then this conversation happened. I can’t tell you how it started or ended, but I remember Paul saying, “You see how I’ve given to you.” And I said, “Yes.” And he said, “That’s how you should give to other people.”

I think I saw him once after that. I remember us standing in the back of the studio, in the kitchen. Maybe he was there. Maybe it was just me and I was on the phone with him. The fact that I can’t remember suddenly bothers me. It feels like when you lose your favorite ring or some treasured object. But either way, I do remember standing there, and I remember Paul saying, “I’ll call you Monday.” So it was probably a Friday or Saturday, which seems right because I went to a birthday party that weekend for my friend Emily. And I remember because the weather was terrible, and on the drive home from Fayetteville, the road was covered in ice. I had to stop three times to scrap ice off my windshield wipers.

Well, despite the fact that Paul always did what he said he would do, he didn’t call on Monday. I never spoke to him again.

I guess Tuesday or Wednesday, I was in the room I grew up in, sleeping in my twin bed, and it was beside the window, and my nightstand was in front of the window. And when I woke up, I looked at my phone on my nightstand, and I had a message from my friend Eugenia, who used to work for the photographer who owned the building where the dance studio was. They were downstairs, and I was upstairs. So I called Eugenia back, and she said it was in the paper. She said, “Your friend died. Your friend Paul.”

My friend.

My friend Paul.

My friend Paul died.

Even as I type this, I’m crying. Eleven years have gone by, and it feels like I just got off the phone with her. I don’t know that before she said it I’d even stopped to think about or label it. Paul was my friend.

Honestly, that part means even more now than it did then. Since starting therapy, a lot of my friendships have changed, and so many of them have ended. Now more than ever, the friends who are intelligent, loyal, kind, giving, funny, and talented are really, really hard to find, especially in the no-drama department. Yes, a good friend is everything.

As it turns out, Paul had a heart attack. He got himself to the emergency room, but he didn’t make it. The obituary said he was 59. He had three sisters and two stepbrothers. Also, there were a couple things he’d never mentioned. First, his real name was Richard Ray. Paul Montgomery was his stage name, his name in the world of dance and the performing arts. Second, he had a son who lived in another state. I’m guessing he was about my age.

That week I walked around in a fog. I remember going down to the studio alone, practicing Cha Cha steps he’d taught me, almost all of which I’ve now forgotten, I’m sad to say. In the corner of the room, there was his boom box that he’d used to teach, since he still used a lot of tapes, and I only had a CD player. In the other corner, by the sound system, there was a small CD holder of his, full of music and some of his notes. And back by the boom box, there were his dance shoes, solid black, still shining, empty.

Maybe just the week before, my friend Megan had sent me a CD with a bunch of international music on it. The song that caught my attention was “Tengo la Camisa Negra” (“I Have a Black Shirt”) by Juanes. It’s nice for a slow Cha Cha. I listened to it over and over and over again the week that Paul died. I listened to it on the way to his funeral. Even now, I think of him every time I hear it or play it for one my students to dance to. The two are forever melded together in my mind, even though as far as I know, he never heard it.

At the funeral, I had the opportunity to speak about Paul, about the fact that he was my first-ever mentor, what a difference he made in my life, and how he taught me to give. Afterwards, his family invited me to eat with them, and they told stories about Paul, although they called him Richard, or Ray, I think. In the weeks that followed, I found out that Paul knew one of my friends, a local artist. They were in an artist group together.

And whereas I loved hearing all the stories and I would gladly welcome more, there are times that I still like to think of Paul as a guardian angel, someone a little less human than the rest of us, proof that there’s something out there that sends miracles into the lives of people like me, people who need a little help, guidance, and encouragement, even if they don’t know they do.

But I’m sure the fact is that Paul was quite human. I can only assume there was probably a divorce at some point, a reason his own son was never mentioned, and maybe that had something to do with the fact that he gave so much to me and never asked anything in return. (Again, I’m just speculating.) And perhaps that’s more beautiful, the idea that any one of us, despite any flaws we may have, can rise to the status of mentor and friend in the life of another. What a beautiful thing.

When Malia and I later performed that swing dance routine, I wore Paul’s shoes. I remember they were tight, a little small for me, and the sole started to pull off. So afterwards, I had them repaired, and I never wore them again.

I wish I could remember more of the steps Paul taught me. I wish I’d recorded them. But that was before everyone had a video camera, and Paul didn’t like being recorded. Later, another dance teacher in town gave me a video from a class she’d taken with him, but he isn’t in it. It’s just his students, demonstrating his move with his voice in the background.

For a while, it scared me that I couldn’t remember patterns he’d taught me. What if I didn’t get everything I needed? But then I remembered this time that Paul was getting ready to teach a dance lesson to a new couple. And before they got there, he started playing music on his boom box. And I said, “You turn the music on before they get here?” And he just smiled and said, “You’ll learn.”

I’ve since come to see that one of the greatest gifts Paul gave me was his faith in me. Honestly, I think few dancers give that to each other because most of us are so insecure and concerned for ourselves that it’s hard to give to someone else, to help them come up. But that wasn’t a problem for Paul. And he was right. I had the studio for eleven years, and I learned. And everything turned out all right.

Eleven years later, the two things that continue to guide me are “I’ll take care of you” and “That’s how you should give to other people.” For a while, I thought that “I’ll take care of you” was a good way to think about God. Like, I always have a million questions, and God’s sitting up there going, “I’ve got this. Let me do my job.” But lately I’ve also been thinking that “I’ll take care of you” is a perfect motto to have for myself because there have been so many shit things that have happened over the years, so many times I didn’t know how to stand up for myself, care for myself, and love myself. So what better thing than to be able to look at the person in the mirror and let him know that I’ve always got at least one friend, and I’m not going anywhere.

Sometimes when I tell the story of Paul, I get these funny looks or responses that go like, “What would an older man want with someone your age?” And I get that, but it always pisses me off because it didn’t have anything to do with that at all. Once Paul told Malia and me, “I’m not gay, but I’m not prejudice.” And I kind of hate that I’m even including this paragraph, but I guess I am because if you’ve never been the recipient of an unconditional type of love, if you’ve never had a mentor, you’re probably going to be suspicious of things like kindness.

Last Saturday, I blogged about a fantastic night of dancing. (See “happier than a pig in a shed.”) And all I can tell you is that Paul was there. I don’t mean his literal spirit was there, although I think that’s possible. But I do mean that the spirit he passed on to me was there. I mean that he taught me to give, so that’s what I did whenever a kid would come up to me and say, “Will you teach me more?” And I can’t tell you the number of people over the years who had free or cheaper or longer dance lessons, or were simply the recipient of a more patient instructor, all because I knew Paul. And if anyone’s ever heard me say, “Don’t forget to breathe,” that came from him too.

Good news: Last week, I remembered that I saved a CD with the picture of Paul on it. It was the only disk of pictures I kept, and his was the only picture on the disk. Yesterday, I backed it up in five different locations.

Eleven weeks. That was how long Paul and I knew each other. And I can’t tell you why it all happened the way it did, why Paul happened to wander into Firehouse Subs and overhear two people who happened to be my students talking about dancing. But I’m glad it did. And whenever I start thinking that life sucks and nothing good ever happens, I just have to remember that. Miracles happen. And I hate that I didn’t know Paul longer, but I’m over-the-moon with gratitude and humility that I knew him. God, it has made the biggest difference.

[Paul, if I never said it before, thank you. Thank you for being my teacher, mentor, and friend. Thank you for being my guardian angel. Thank you for giving.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Nothing is set in stone here.

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happier than a pig in a shed (blog #16)

I first started swing dancing in in 1999, and my sister was my dance partner. We were both living at home (kind of like I am now), and after class each week, we’d put music on in the living room and show Mom what we learned. I remember being really excited about it.

In 2007, I got interested in Lindy Hop, which is a more advanced form of swing dancing than the one I already knew (East Coast Swing). So my friends Greg, Rita, Krista, and I would travel each spring to a Lindy Hop convention in Houston called Lindyfest. Our little group called ourselves The Lindy Dogs, and we even had matching shoe bags—like a gang—well—a West Side Story kind of gang. I remember being so starry-eyed the first time I walked into the Melody Ballroom, into the midst of hundreds of Lindy Hoppers. There’s nothing like it. It’s magic. Even now, I can see Andy Reid doing a move in my mind’s eye that I later learned and still use and teach. (If you don’t know, Andy Reid is a big damn deal in Lindy Hop.)

I think those first two or three years at Lindyfest were the best because it was all about my love of swing dancing and time spent with my friends. I remember once when all of us Lindy Dogs were in the car together, and I said that I was “happier than a pig in shit.” Well, Greg thought I said “happier than a pig in a shed,” so that kind of became our group’s inside joke, and it still gets used ten years later.

But despite hundreds of great memories like this one, something happened over the course of the last ten years that quite frankly, sucks. Simply put, I started judging myself and comparing myself to other people on the dance floor. I imagine it all started out pretty innocently, mostly because I wanted to get better, and being a rule follower and a teacher’s pet, I wanted to do things “the right way.”

I used to watch the television show Once Upon a Time, and the character Rumpelstiltskin always said something like, “Everything comes with a price.” And whereas I’ve known for a long time that the price of judging yourself and comparing yourself to others is being less creative on the dance floor, I’ve been thinking lately the price is even higher than that—you also lose your joy—which, at least for me, was the reason I started dancing in the first place.

Tonight I taught a beginner East Coast Swing lesson to a large room full of mostly college students. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve taught the exact same material, but something was different about tonight, and I think it had to do with the fact that pretty much every single person in the room didn’t know shit about swing dancing. Basically, it was a room full of virgins. They don’t know Peter Strom from Peter Rabbit. And they were SO excited. There was a guy named Chase (wearing a shirt that said “I am the best” except “the best” was crossed out and replaced with “blessed”) who asked me to teach him the pretzel (a move where your arms get all twisted up like, well, a pretzel). I don’t think any self-respecting Lindy Hopper would be caught dead doing the pretzel, but almost all new swing dancers love the shit out of it. I remember enthusiastically asking my teacher when I could learn it. So I showed it to Chase—because it’s fun. The result?

More joy.

There was a kid named Jake there tonight, and he was happier than a pig in a shed. He had the biggest grin on his face during the entire lesson. Like, he was dripping with glee. Personally, I usually play my emotions pretty close to my vest, so later I just asked him, “Why are you so happy?” And get this shit. He said, “I’m just glad to be here.” Like, it was that simple. Nothing about self-judgment or comparing himself to others.

Since starting this blog, I’ve had a number of people tell me that they admire my courage, my honesty, and my vulnerability. I appreciate all of those comments, but it usually feels like they’re talking about someone else because I was literally shaking when this site went live, and there’s still part of me that likes to pretend that no one’s reading it.

I was telling one of my friends tonight that the primary goal for this blog was and still is for me to write on a more consistent basis. So far it’s working. But tonight I noticed an added benefit that I hadn’t anticipated. But before I can tell you what it was, I need to back up a moment.

For the longest time, I’ve only presented a certain side of myself on social media and in my dance classes. And whereas that side was honest, it wasn’t complete. As I think about it now, it felt like being a half person, a person who didn’t have a sexuality, a person who didn’t talk about feeling embarrassed or less than, and a person who didn’t say fuck. As a consequence to living that way, I am almost always nervous in social situations. Like, I’ve been comfortable as a teacher, but not as just a person who walks around and introduces himself and asks people how they’re doing or if I can help. I can only assume that was because I wasn’t really at home in myself, and I always felt like someone would discover that other half of me and judge me for it.

And it’s not that I intend to talk about every single thing in my life on this blog, but my therapist says that part of the goal of being authentic is to have as few secrets as possible. So that’s partly what’s happening here in a rather public way. It’s a place where, having been honest with myself first, I can be honest with others. I have a sexuality, sometimes I’m embarrassed and feel less than, and I say fuck (every fucking day). And I think Jesus is okay with all of that, thank you very much.

So about that added benefit. I was more relaxed and less nervous tonight than I have been in years. I felt at home in my own skin. I didn’t fiddle with my phone so I didn’t have to talk to people. I just talked to people, and I never once thought, What if they find out about that other part of me? And guess what?

More authentic joy.

I told some of my friends tonight that I envied the virgin swing dancers because their excitement and enthusiasm for swing dancing was untainted by self-judgment and imagined standards of “good enough.” But I think that if you love something, that love never goes away. It’s like you can run yourself ragged working for this standard of perfection and you can get really far away from where you started. But the good news is, that love inside that shows up as joy or enthusiasm is your authentic self, and it just sits there, patiently waiting for you to come back to it, to come back home to yourself and remember that not only are you good enough exactly as you are, but you’re also—just glad to be here.

[Special thanks to Greg, Rita, and Krista (pictured first, with me) for you authentic love of swing dancing. You’re like family. Also thanks to Sydnie Meltzer Kleinhenz, who helped me teach the virgins tonight and also provided the additional photos. You rock step like a rock star. Lastly, thanks to the NWA Swing Dance Society for a truly beautiful evening. It was magic.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Bodies are so mysterious, much more complicated than car doors. They take more patience to understand and work with. They require more than a couple hours to repair.

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