MAY I HAVE THIS DANCE?
by Brad Wilcox, Assistant Professor, Brigham Young University

"All right, all you boys. There are lots of girls who would love to
dance, so let's get busy." Our tour adviser looked directly at Jason and
me and then turned on the music again. A tropical breeze shuffled through
leaves in a planter behind us on the hotel patio. I had only just
finished eighth grade and didn't even know how to dance by myself, let
alone ask a girl to do it with me.

"I guess we should go dance, Brad." Jason was rolling up the embroidered
sleeves of his I'm-a-tourist-in-Mexico shirt he had bought that
afternoon. "No, not me."

"But Mr. Jarman said there are girls who want to dance, and anyway this
is the last night of the tour and we'll probably never see them again." A
sudden gust blew Jason's hair across his eyes. Casually he brushed it
back again. This educational tour through Mexico had been sponsored by
our school district, and up to now it had been a great experience. Why
did they have to spoil it with a dance?

"Come on." Jason got me to my feet. "You ask Joan, and I'11 ask
Christie." He buttoned his top shirt button, moved across the patio, and
offered his hand. "Hey, Christie, would you like to dance?"  I stood back
and watched in hopes of gaining instant learning in the intricacies of
social interaction. Christie flipped her hair. "Gee ... ah ... thanks,
Jason, but not right now." "What about you, Joan?" he asked.

From my safe position behind the lines, I noticed Jason's crooked-tooth
smile. I saw my friend for the first time as those girls might be seeing
him, and I guess, overall, he did look kind of unusual.

"I'd really like to dance, Jason, but I don't like this song." He tugged
at his gaudy new shirt. "Well, maybe later?" The two embarrassed girls
looked quickly at each other. "Oh... ah ... we're not feeling too well."

After a moment he came back to me. "Okay, Brad, who should we ask next?"
I still couldn't believe what Joan had said. "Not feeling well!" I
complained to Jason. "She felt well enough to dance with Monroe a few
minutes ago." "But he's a senior in high school. We're only eighth
graders."

"Ninth grade now," I reminded him. I followed him to the tile fountain in
the center of the patio, where Stephanie LeBette stood. With her hand on
her hip and her nose in the air, she might as well have been a
water-spouting statue.

I realized what Jason was about to do even before he said, "Hey,
Stephanie, how about a dance?" "Jason, don't..." I turned away with
elaborate casualness.  Stephanie broke her pose to smile disdainfully and
glide haughtily away. "Well, how about it, you want to dance?" Jason
called after her. "No, gracias, senior." She didn't even bother to look
back.

I pushed a ripple into the fountain pool. "I don't get it, Jas. I thought
girls liked to dance." "They do," he assured me. "Look, why don't you ask
Stephanie?" "No way, not her. I don't want to get turned down, too." With
his square fingers Jason jarred the water again, contorting our shadowed
reflections. "Brad, if Stephanie doesn't want to dance it's her problem,
not yours." "But if she said no, why keep asking her?" "Why not?"

The director turned up the music again. Jason stepped closer to me to be
heard. "Why should you let her decide how you're going to act?" He
touched his greased hair, which was unmoved since the last time. "I'm
going over there and ask some new girls. Want to come?" I shook my head
and sat on the tile rim. Even through my thick jeans it felt cold. Jason
walked away, stepping awkwardly to the musical beat.

As I think back on the incident, I realize that Jason is one of the few
people I've ever known who ACTED toward people. Most of us REACT to
people. He knew what he wanted and how he should behave. If Stephanie had
refused me like that, I'd have either crawled off and buried myself in a
Mexican pyramid or said, "you're not so neat yourself, you goat," and
maybe bitten her ankle or something.

I remember that evening as though I were a character in a cartoon sitting
by that cold fountain thinking, but with nothing written in my thought
bubble. If I were to fill it in now, I guess I'd write, "no one is more
miserable than the dummy who always reacts."

At that long-ago dance my center of confidence was outside myself, being
kicked around that patio like an old can. If Christie had said, "You're
cold," I'd have sneezed. Monroe had said, you're hot," I'd have wiped my
forehead. My feelings toward the whole situation were totally dependent
upon a few people who could decide if I were to be embarrassed or proud,
rude or gracious, introverted or extroverted.  Unlike Jason, whose
emotional security was rooted within himself as it should be, I had
relinquished control of my own personality.

I'm thankful for that skinny tourist friend and for the important
principle he personified: to act and not to react. For in all the dances
I've attended since that bomb-out in Mexico, not once have I bitten
Stephanie LeBeae's ankle.

Original Source: Tips for Tackling Teenage Troubles by Brad Wilcox
(Deseret Book, 1998), pp.52-53.