Yes, I Remember It Well
Cotillion: A formal evening ball or semi-formal afternoon dance.
Cotillion Class: A weekly gathering of gawky girls and bashful boys; age range 11 to 13 years old for the purpose of learning etiquette, social manners and ballroom dance.
Yes, I remember it well.
It’s Wednesday. I have to finish my homework quickly; then rush to get dressed and scoot across the street to the studio. It’s 1954 and my favorite dance class of the week is about to start. “W” was my favorite letter that year too — it was scribbled all over my book covers. “W” stood for Wednesday cotillion class and Wayne, my heartthrob. It also stood for wonderful, because it was such a fun time for me.
In 1954, pre-teen girls still wore pageboy hairstyles, dresses, white gloves and nylon stockings with low heel pumps. The boys were groomed in the usual suit, white shirt with conservative tie and enough pomade in their hair to fry chicken.
We were greeted at the studio room door by the teacher, my mother. She extended her white gloved hand to girls and boys alike who were expected to shake it gently and greet her with a “Good evening Miss Wall.” The giggly girls entered the room first, followed by the boys who were usually pushing to be the last one to have to enter. The more time they had to stay outside the classroom, the more time they had to act like the normal goof-offs that they were.
Once the door was closed to the glaring eyes of the parents, the girls became ladies and the boys became gentlemen — at least verbally. We took our seats on opposite sides of the room. Miss Wall instructed us in learning the social grace and dance step of the week, and then it was time to dance. That was the best part.
The boy was expected to walk over to the girl and politely ask her to dance. The phrase was simple and clear, “May I have this dance?” No Sadie Hawkins invitations here. Every girl had to accept the invitation regardless of how many pimples the boy had. That was the polite thing to do. We practiced the newly learned steps on our own and got individual attention from the teacher when we stumbled — sometimes literally. Then, we really got to dance.
We fox-trotted around the floor in a counterclockwise circle while Jo Stafford sang “You Belong To Me” on the record player; the girl’s right hand was placed in the boy’s left and held at the proper height; the ladies moved backwards guided by the gentleman’s hand on her back; her left hand rested softly on his right shoulder and quiet conversation, which was allowed, could sparsely be heard.
By 9:00 p.m. cotillion class was politely dismissed, and my wonderful Wednesday with Wayne was over until next week. Week after week the pattern remained pretty much the same; even the refreshments looked and tasted very familiar. Everything followed suit. The only real changes were the music selections and the dances learned. But that was ok, everyone had fun, and I had my short time with Wayne as the world blissfully continued to revolve.
Why do today’s young couples hang on each other and just sway in place? What happened to the footwork and fun of the Fox-trot? Why do they fast dance with a partner who is nowhere near them? Where’s the enjoyment in that? Dancing is a social grace that allows couples to enjoy each other and converse while on the dance floor. I don’t see that happening. Partnering seems to span “too close for comfort” to “where are you?”
I think the generation gap has gone on too long; it’s time for a resurrection of the cotillion class. Let’s educate today’s youth in the true social dance technique. Let’s give them a chance to have fun and then be able to look back and say, “Yes, I remember it well”. Are you a cotillion graduate? Please share your memories with me at daniebeck@dancersuniverse.com.