Do They Still Have School Dances?

Courage came late to the dance

Is the school dance now in the rear-view mirror? I had not heard lately, and I wonder whether they are as much a part of the American culture as they were for me. When I was a kid, school dances, though torturous they may be, were an integral part of our lives.

Adolescence was not easy, and dancing added to the struggle. In junior high school, though dance class was obligatory, I made every effort to avoid it, to no avail. The instructor was not only determined to teach us to dance. But also, to teach us the etiquette of asking someone to be your partner. It was a potential disaster laden with the self-consciousness of smelly, sweaty armpits, milky moisture on your upper lip, and being short; like I was up to her collarbone.

Boys stood to one side of the gym while the girls, taller, more mature, and beautiful, stood at the opposite wall. Oh yes, that same palestra where we gathered in clusters on squeaky floors for gym class and where we played basketball against other schools was now transformed from a sweaty venue to a faux dance hall with big windows, monstrous ceiling, peeling paint and echoes of waltzes.

A more formal dance. I’m in the white suit; with JoAnn

Our school, the George J. West Jr, High, initiated the dances to help kids socialize and to help keep them out of trouble. Though I cannot remember asking a girl in those classes, I am sure the teacher made it happen.

But somehow, we summoned the courage to move on to greater things, like the high school on a Saturday night.

Well, OK, learning to dance at school was one thing, but Saturday nights were something quite different because that was the night of the LaSalle Canteen which took place in the nearby high school.

At the Canteen, we gathered under the watchful eyes of the Christian Brothers, the security guards of our days, while we danced, maybe, to spinning 45s. With confidence in numbers, off I went with friends.

I remember how much fun it was, I think . . . sorta . . . most of the time. The difficulty was summoning the courage to ask a dance partner, perhaps an unspoken girlfriend, one I sometimes walked home from school, carried her books, asked to a movie, borrowed her pencils . . . all easy. But dancing? Well, that was another world.

At the Canteen, it took some time before the courage came, usually forced by “This is the last set,” before my confidence ascended to a suitable height. Canteen struggles slowed me down, stymied me, and I found excuses such as:

She was standing with a group of girlfriends, I’m too short, it was ladies’ choice, and I was hiding the boys’ room. Or my favorite girl tapped someone else. Dam, my fault.

Or it just wasn’t the right song.

Finally, when I summoned the courage, two things happened. It was the last set of the evening, and the Brothers came ‘round, peered over their pince-nez eyeglasses, tapped you on the shoulder, and admonished, “Leave room for the Holy Ghost,” just when you were warming up. And the tune?

Why “Good Night Sweetheart” by The Spaniels, of course.

As awkward and uncomfortable as we were, being introduced to dancing, hanging out, and socializing was an experience we craved and enjoyed. Oh, to have another chance.

“Play another. Play my favorite.”

Ó 2025