Dancing.

(Emily and Margot, this is especially for you.)

The students of ORI (Orphans of Rwanda) live in group homes. In each of these houses, there are 6-8 students and about 3-4 bedrooms. That fact will be important later.

One of the houses has 6 charming and intelligent young men living there, each of them warm and pleasant. Emily, an intern at ORI, ends her service this Friday and the men of this house wanted to throw her a goodbye party, which took place this past Saturday night.

Emily and I arrived at the quiet house around 7pm. They offered us Fantas and plates of brown nuts (similar to peanuts but tastier). For roughly the next 2 hours we all sat on couches and exchanged pleasant conversation.

Slowly, and without any formal acknowledgment, the music that was in the background became louder. Huge, three feet tall speakers emerged from one of the bedrooms and were set up in the living room. Furniture was pushed against the walls.

One of the students, I'll call him John, was the first to dance. John brings unmatched energy into any situation, which might be in part due to his steady diet of cookies and soft drinks. Therefore, he had no reluctance to starting the festivities. As he began, it became clear that he did not intend to demonstrate simple toe-taping, hip-swaying movements. His mother had taught him and he later performed traditional Rwandan dancing, which attempts to glorify and mimic cows, one of the countries main and longest standing sources of revenue and pride. So, there in the living room, he began to lionize cows through dance.

He extended his arms out to the side, bent his knees slightly, arched his back and began the footwork, a small side to side step. With he eyes closed, he slowly moved about the room. Then "Thawp! Thwap!" He slammed his feet against the concrete floor and brought his arms forward, pointing straight ahead. Back to the subtle footwork. His arms serpentined from the front to the side, each position representing a cow's horns. "Thwap! Thawp!" Arms forward while his head rolled. The dance is meant to be serious, a bovine homage. As hard as he tried, however, he could not keep from grinning. He was also wearing a Barak Obama T-shirt.

"Come, Trevor, I will teach you how." John beckoned me to the dance floor and taught me, as best he could and with graceful patience, how to dance like a cow. The basic steps were easy enough but my best attempts to personify the respected animal looked more like a reaction to ice water down my back and some mild seizures.

Soon, the music changed from traditional Rwandan to Congolese and Nat took prominence on the floor. Nat is somewhat of ORI's spokesperson. He is handsome, speaks English fluently, and loves people. Dressed in baggy jeans, dress shirt, and straight-brimmed fitted hat with NY embroidered on the front, Nat tucked in his shirt, hitched his pants up to his torso, and gyrated - simply shook.

It appears that in Congolese dancing, intent trumps style. It doesn’t matter what you do, just do it to a full extent. Shudder. Swivel. Glide. Pop. All of us pulled up our pants, tightened our belts, and moved in whatever way felt natural. Nat eventually had to wrap a towel under his NY hat to keep the sweat out of his eyes.

These young men are all in their early 20’s, all studying computer science, management, etc. In that room, with empty Fanta bottles abandoned on end tables, I saw joy, pure, unabashed joy. There was no attempt to impress, no reason for dancing other than to simply dance. It was 6 men, including me, and Emily dancing in a living room. That's it. For 3 hours. It was wonderful.

Perhaps innocence can be chosen, can be an acquired state of being. These young men have experienced unimaginable loss and suffering. Yet wrapped in music and dance, they were as carefree children, basking in one another's presence and laughing because they could seemingly do nothing less.


Later on that same evening…
Through the speakers came, “On a warm summer’s evening, on a train bound for Georgia…” In Kigali, Rwanda, at a college house party, they played Kenny Rogers', “The Gambler.” All six of them screamed after a bit of shocked silence when I began to sing along. They asked me to write down the lyrics.

After midnight, as the dancing stopped and talking resumed, one of the young men, a tall, thin volleyball player that had led us in a Congo Line, noticed my fatigue.

"You are tired? You stay here tonight, in my room. It is just me."

And just one bed.

His roommate was out of town. There are 6 guys who stay there and 4 beds. Totally normal for them.

My mantra at that point changed from, "Yes," to, "Maybe some other time." As a teacher, their teacher, a slumber party might be a bit much.

Around 1 o’clock all six of them accompanied Emily and me for the 20 minutes walk to the road to catch a ride home. Nat called about a half an hour later to make sure I had gotten home safely. I am already dreading saying goodbye.