Tapping Into Something Great

Tap dancing has roots in Chinatown. A product of 19th century Irish and Black immigrants being smashed together in tight quarters, its bright percussion is unmistakable. Two hundred years later, I practiced a restrained rendition of the tap routine I was learning while waiting for the B at Grand Street. Since starting the “Ultimate Beginners Workshop” at Steps on Broadway, the muted drum of the rubber soles of my sneakers dig-brush-stepping on the subway platform replaced the music I normally listened to while commuting. I focused my attention on a rat sniffing for snacks in the tracks to get the next part of the choreography right. The clang-hiss-screech of the train’s arrival drowned out the sound of my shoes, but I kept moving my feet to the rhythm in my head. I couldn’t wait to get uptown, strap into my metal-plated Mary Janes, and make noise one more time.

The tap classes were originally a Christmas gift for my friend, Emily, but I couldn’t help it. I bought a pack for myself. On the evening of our first class, I arrived half an hour early. In my excitement to learn about tap — to discover the curious way two feet in two unassuming shoes could knock out a symphony — I forgot my physical body would have to be there, too. I wondered if my ankles would snap or if my breasts would slap together when I bounced, somehow clapping louder than a classroom of people with metal drilled into their soles.

It couldn’t happen, but as a fat woman, it’s hard not to feel self conscious about the noises I make — the friction of my jeans, the squeak of my shoes, the laboring of my breath while walking uphill. Even when I’m asleep, I wonder if my neighbors are bothered by my snoring. Why the hell did I think stomping around on wood with metal in my feet would be fun for me? It was too late to turn back.

The entrance is unassuming, tucked under a Fairway market, which was comforting to me. I thought if I collapsed while dancing, someone could run down and grab me a juice. I’ve never fainted before, but I’m a “you never know” kind of gal. I pulled open the swinging door to the ancient elevator and stepped into the relic. I hit three. Nothing. A minute went by before a girl came in, bundled up in a puffer. She held the “door close” button and it obeyed. As we inched up shakily, the girl with me unzipped her coat.

I immediately texted Emily, who was on her way: “Alert. The girl in my elevator is wearing a leotard. This is Step Up.” The doors opened and the sounds of loud-speakers straining and feet landing with full weight behind them became clear. People were really dancing. While Steps on Broadway offers classes for newcomers, I found out immediately it is also a place for serious dancers. It was more than Step Up. It was Fame. I worried we’d made a huge miscalculation.

We filed into the studio next to the hall where lithe dancers were stretching in tights. Then our teacher, Nicole, bounced in and confirmed we were in the right place. We shed our winter boots for Capezios— the ultimate beginners had done their research! I avoided eye contact with myself and pulled my t-shirt down over my stomach. I’ve been trying to love my body since those “real beauty” Dove commercials came out in 2004 — and some days I do. I know I’m not supposed to admit I struggle with being fat, but in a world where comments like “you’re not fat, you’re beautiful” or “but you have such a pretty face” are considered compliments, it can be exhausting. I didn’t expect to find progress at a dance class on the Upper West Side.

We began with a basic warm up: an eight count of toe taps followed by an eight count of heel drops. It was simple enough that we were quickly able to find the rhythm. I was so hypnotized by the bright taps and heavy drops being made in unison that any thoughts about what the rest of my individual body was doing started to quiet. We were a collective body wearing magic shoes.

Nicole built a routine to a song called “Feet Don’t Fail Me Now” by the Louisiana Men. A more cynical version of myself would have found the song choice a bit on the nose, but my current self, blissed out on shuffle-step-heel-steps, bounced my knees with delight when the beat came in. She taught us the choreography using the sounds our feet would make before telling us what they were called. She would ask: can everyone say bah-di-ba-di-bap? And we would repeat it back obediently. Then she’d dance the rhythm with her feet, and we’d respond in kind. My heart filled up in these moments of synchrony. It felt powerful for my body to be needed by the group to make the exact music we were making. For once, my feet weren’t failing me at all.

While walking up the stairs for my transfer from the B to the 1 at 59th street, I heard the familiar sound of metal on wood. A man was tap dancing for money on the platform. I ran over to give him a dollar and pulled my shoes out of my bag — pointing at them and grinning like a maniac. He threw both arms in the air, “That’s fucking awesome!” He was dead on. Tap is fucking awesome. The workshop is over now, but I practice in my socks, mindful of my neighbors— the sounds of our group pounding the floor still ringing in my head— until I can go back for more.