this story originally appeared in the philippine daily inquirer on January 29, 2000.
Growing up can indeed be a painful experience. From the time I was in my preteens up to my early adolescent years, I often came home with a red, tear-streaked face and looking as though I had just attended a funeral. This happened almost every other day, and the reason was that I had so many fears, anxieties and insecurities. I was afraid of trying new things because I was afraid of failure. I was anxious because I often found myself walking the tightrope of self-doubt, to uncertainty and eventual trust. It didn’t come easily, but it came, nonetheless. Finally, I was terribly insecure because I didn’t know how to pursue what I wanted, without choking at the first signs of difficulty. On those stormy days, I’d immediately dash up the stairs two steps at a time, slam the door to my room shut and drop my body on my bed like a cold, limp cadaver. There I would sulk, and cry bitterly and ramble on in a manner that would have made a drunken man look sane and sober in comparison.
My room became the perfect hole for me to wallow in self-deprecation. One such day, however, I decided to leave my room before crying myself to sleep and look for anything that could make me feel better. I was intent on reversing my mood. Frustrated and tired of being paralyzed by my own chronic defeatism, I trudged down the stairs. I found my grandfather in his lounging chair out on the veranda, enjoying the sun and the breeze with a look of uncontrived serenity and contentment. Often, when I find him in one of such ”moments,” he’d have this wistful, faraway look that told he was reminiscing on the ”Golden Thirties.” My grandfather was at the prime of his youth when Manila society was at its most carefree, affluent and prosperous, shortly before World War II. On such occasions, I would usually be beside him, more than glad to listen to the stories about an age so alien and yet all at once so fascinating for its innocence and romance. This was not one of those days.
The last thing I wanted was to exacerbate my depression by hearing things that would only make me more bitter at having been born in a time and place that wasn’t close to ideal like his. I forced myself to approach him, knowing fully well that he would be in one of his ”moments.” I was dreading it–expecting it and dreading it. I watched him closely anticipating the moment when he’d begin his storytelling. Surprisingly, all I got from him was a knowing smile and a fairly long period of silence. Then, he broke the silence with an unexpected question. ”Camille, do you know how to dance?” he asked. ”No, Lolo. I’ve never tried and I’m afraid I’m no good at it,” I told him. ”Well, how will you know if you’ve never even tried?” ”A good hunch.” ”I have a feeling that hunch is not so good.” Then he rose from his chair, took my hand and began to give me my first lesson in dancing.
My grandfather was born with wings for feet. In fact, he was some kind of a ”lady killer” in his youth. I was told that many a young lady would swoon at the sight of him stepping into the ballroom, looking dapper in his suit and hat. Impeccably dressed, with a dignified carriage (owing to his tall, lean build and natural charisma), he would dance the night away. To put it mildly, I was intimidated by the idea of dancing with him. My heart raced and my palms were clammy. My knees buckled at the first steps and I stared at the floor with a horrified look. Every muscle in my body was tense. Every movement was hesitant. Here was a man advanced in wisdom who carried the dignity of his years with effortless grace and mastery. And there I was, an awkward girl, barely a woman, approaching the door to an entirely new world. It was an interplay between old and new. It was the dance of two generations, where the earlier teaches, and the latter learns. ”One, two, three . . . one, two, three,” he hummed repeatedly until I had an instinctive knowledge of the rhythm. I swayed, stepped and let him guide me, and soon I was dancing the waltz.
I found my rhythm the moment I decided to let go of my inhibitions. Time seemed to pause as I became light as a feather, gliding in waves of movement. I felt so free. An hour and 10 very sore toes later (on the part of my grandfather, that is), we decided to call it a day. I was physically spent, but I felt spiritually renewed. I thanked him, hugged him and went upstairs to my room with a new sense of hope and insight. My room wasn’t as dark and dingy as I perceived it to be. Many years later, there are still days when I come close to being rendered immobile by insecurity. When that happens I remember the day when I was proven wrong because my grandfather understood life’s lessons very well and I draw strength from that memory. Although I will never be able to dance the waltz with him again, the lesson I learned forever remains.
