Kissufim
Ariane Anderson
IIn my search for self-expression, I found my place in an unlikely group. Even though my fellow folk dance partners were forty to fifty years older than me, they could out dance anyone half their age. For example, Ahoovah, from Lithuania, was like a character straight out of “Fiddler on The Roof.” Her short, spindly legs could dance tirelessly.
One day after class she invited me to her home to have tea. As she served homemade Rugalach, with its rich, flaky pastry and strong, hot tea, I heard her first hand accounts of surviving the Nazis in her native country during the war. Yet, here she was, dancing.
Hal and Flo, who never missed a class, took my family under their wings. Flo always said, “Enjoy your children now; these are the ‘Golden Years.’” And each time my husband and I brought our newborn babies home, we would be greeted by Hal and Flo, coming to our door, with a Chai gift in hand. “To Life and Good Luck! Remember, these are the ‘Golden Years,’ so enjoy them.” Their words of wisdom felt like a loving order. Surely they embraced life in this way because of the loss of one of their sons in a motorcycle accident. I determined to live my life with the twinkling amusement and flinty determination that I saw in Flo’s blue eyes.
Feeling the smooth, soft, boney hands in mine as we danced, our group moved to the lively melodies as the circle spun, rocked, hopped, and stomped to the Klezmer music. As we chanted Lai, Lai, Lai, the deep toned strains of slower dances evoked memories of struggle or inspired longing for justice and beauty. We moved through their world history of suffering and triumph through the dance. My connection and identity with these people surprised me. I realized that I had no problem expressing my passion and creativity as I danced with them. My desire to belong was filled. My longing to use my body to express what was in my deepest heart was answered. It felt like dancing in the arms of God.
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