The Last Entry

A few weekends ago I attended a birthday party for Elsa's mother in Oaxaca Centro. It was, for the most part, a very enjoyable time – not all that different from an American birthday party, but with some interesting cultural quirks. The most notable such quirk was the group’s fondness for “Benevolent Inquisitions.” I would normally jump at the opportunity to embrace an aspect of another person’s culture. The problem was, in this case, the “benevolent inquisition” would be performed on me.

It all began when Elsa’s uncle asked me if Americans like to dance. “Not as much as Mexicans,” I responded, “but some do.” “Do you?” he asked. “Yep,” I said, offering my standard wanna-dance reply: “about as much as I like a trip to the dentist.” He, however, would not take stale wit for an answer. Neither would the forty other Mexican relatives sitting beside him. They had found their monkey for the night.

I tried to explain to them that I was willing to perform for them. I could tell jokes, I could tell a story, sing a tune or two, whatever. None of those would do. Apparently any suggestion that didn’t significantly moisten my khaki pants was out. Finally, I told them that the only ‘dance’ I knew was the moonwalk – which I demonstrated – but that only lasts like ten seconds. They then told me that it didn’t matter if I knew a specific dance, just dance to the rhythm of…the room. At that point there was no music in the room. Was I supposed to imagine a rhythm? Use my heartbeat as a metronome? At least then I’d escape through death.

Eventually they found music for me to dance to, but this didn’t help much. It just eliminated an excuse. Since the song they put on was a salsa type number, I danced in the ‘Slow Electrocution’ style. There was a degree of forethought in this selection: if it had been more of a mariachi sound, I would’ve surely gone with Slower Electrocution.

My audience, however, did not appreciate my forethought. They thought I was a first grader drowning in the deep end of the pool. They were right. Unfortunately, the unmarried 40-year-old woman they chose to save me couldn’t do much. We could do The Sway just fine, but any time we tried to venture beyond that I’d start stepping on her shoes. Which inhibited further growth.

Fortunately we only danced for about ten more minutes. By then, even Elsa’s burly, borracho uncle was willing to relent. Twenty minutes of spastic gringo entertainment was sufficient.

In the end, the inquisition was stressful and embarrassing, but benevolent. They knew I wasn’t a fan of dancing, but knew I’d be able to get over it and have a sense of humor about it. If twenty minutes of spastic gringo entertainment made them happy, I’m glad I obliged.