Everything conspires to take away from a man who is set in authority over others the sense of justice and reason. Much trouble, we are told, is taken to teach young princes the art of reigning; but their education seems to do them no good. It would be better to begin by teaching them the art of obeying. --Jean-Jacques Rousseau, The Social Contract
JAMILA
Well. I was wrapping up my last semester of student teaching, with a job already lined up out of state in the fall, provided I finished my two outstanding classes over the summer. How am I possibly going to entertain myself in this town, I thought, with nothing to fill up my time but two courses and a tutoring job?
And then I saw him. And I knew exactly how I intended to keep myself interested until launch day.
It was the warm last weeks of the spring semester, and the high school I was assigned to had brought in an "environmental theater" group to immerse our students in the English Renaissance. I was pretty skeptical, but decided to show some spirit by coming in costume--but definitely not Elizabethan costume. Besides being incredibly elaborate and labor-intensive, a hoop and a farthingale and stuffed sleeves hide the body, and I wanted to flaunt mine; after all, I would still own this dress after this workshop. So I made a medieval bliaut dress--a simple sheath tunic that was form fitting except for the flaring sleeves. The belt hung on my hips in an alluring way, too, because in the Middle Ages you were allowed to have hips. My hair--which is naturally honey-blonde--looked gorgeous against the fabric.
So suddenly there's this tall, skinny guy with strawberry blonde hair and a red beard. I learned later that he put lemon juice in his hair so the sun could bleach it; he was very vain of his hair, in an all-natural hippy sort of way. I watched, fascinated, as he led our students in a farandole--a long, snaky line dance with all kinds of twists and turns and ins and outs, until they forgot to be too cool for school and had a great time.
When the program was over, the students heading back inside and the performers packing up their props, he came over to take his leave of me with a bow and a kiss on my hand. But when he stood back up, he found my hand still clamped tightly to his, my eyes locked on his eyes, and a beckoning smile on my lips.
I thought this was a foolproof strategy, but that fool almost defeated it; he just stared, slack-jawed and confused, until I was on the point of giving it up and letting him go. But at the last moment, the penny dropped, a smile of understanding dawned, and, still holding my hand, he approached me, saying, low and discreetly,
"My Lady has made me her captive; what ransom for my temporary freedom, My Lady?" Yes, yes, cornball as hell. But there was something sweet about his willingness to be that much of a doofus, so I smiled imperiously and played along.
"You must ask me out, sirrah!" I said.
"Right willingly, My Lady!" he said; we were both enjoying the goofy little game. We exchanged names and telephone numbers, and he promised to call.
"Fail me not, or I shall have thee hunted down like a cur!" I warned.
"Rely on me, My Lady," he said, with a bow. Then, as if an afterthought, he added, "If it be not too forward to say it, My Lady looks ravishing in that dress."
So he called that evening, and I was relieved that he was speaking more or less normally. We made a date for dinner at a new--and, sadly, short-lived--Ethiopian restaurant, followed by contradancing. The cuisine was new in this little town, and I had never had it before, and I'd never been contradancing either. He said he'd pick me up at 5:30, which seemed awfully early, but I agreed. As we took our seats in the restaurant, he said,
"I think Ethiopian is the ideal first date food."
"Why's that?" I asked.
"Because it's eaten with the fingers. I figure, make a mess, get it over with. Then we can relax."
"Sounds good," I said. "So while we're still all tense and self-conscious, tell me about yourself."
"Well," he answered, 'I studied music and theater in college, and I love the work I'm doing, but I'm thinking seriously of transitioning to psychotherapy."
"Why psychotherapy?"
"I'm told I'm a good listener. Also, as much of a blast as it is to engage a whole audience at once, I really prefer to engage people one-on-one."
"Well, I hope you don't abandon music and dance!" I said.
"Never if I can help it! But what about you? You're obviously a dancer. What's your story?"
"I'm getting certified to teach high school English, but I'll also be certifying as a Phys. Ed. teacher, so I can teach dance as a gym elective. That's the job I have lined up at a private school in the Midwest in the fall, provided I finish these last two classes."
"You mean you're only here for the summer?" he said, looking crestfallen.
"Yup. I'm outta here," I answered, trying to keep it light.
"Well...I guess I'll have to try to see as much of you as I can in the time I have."
"I encourage that!" I said, and we clinked our glasses.
Our food arrived, and Steve showed me how to break off little pieces of the injera pancake and scoop up the spicy beans, curried vegetables, and cottage cheese off the platter. It was messy, at least until I got used to it, but it was delicious.
"OK, so, speaking of dancing" he said. "Have you ever been to a contradance before?"
"No, but isn't that the dancing done in two long lines facing each other?"
"Exactly. And here's the thing. You are going to be extremely popular.'
"Ooh, I like that! How come?"
"One: you're new, and a newbie is always an object of interest. Two: it's going to be easy for you. It will be a duck-to-water situation: you'll learn it fast, do it well, and look sensational doing it. Three: you're gorgeous. So all told, you're going to be in high demand. Now, it's considered bad form to dance only with the person you came with; you're supposed to switch partners after each dance. But this being our first date and all, could I ask in advance for at least every other dance?"
"I may exact a price."
"And I will willingly pay it!"
When we got to the hall where the dance was--a forty-five minute drive away in Harrisburg, which explained why he'd picked me up so early for dinner--they were just starting the weekly tutorial for new dancers, teaching the most common moves so you'd know what to do when you heard the caller call them. Steve was right--none of it was especially difficult. As more experienced dancers began to arrive, and the string band started to set up, I wondered if I'd made a mistake. This guy was sweet, but awkward and dorky--a little like a puppy. I wondered if the people streaming in through the door were a parade of misfits.
Well, I soon learned what a big snob I was. Steve was in his element--experienced, assured, and good at directing me whenever I became momentarily confused. The sound of feet on the floor was surprisingly loud; unlike freestyle club dancing, everyone here was doing the same things at the same time. The coordination was exciting, as though we were all interlocking parts of one big organic machine.
During the break, we went for a walk along the river. Having talked his ear off during dinner and the drive, I wanted to get him talking.
"Ever given yourself completely to somebody?" I asked. "Without reservation?"
