And the Girls Just Want to Dance

Our local "Irish Festival" brought out many Irish dance troupes. Most were made up of young girls who are enrolled in area schools of dance and they came to show their passion and skill. Those in the audience were reminded how God blesses some with feet that fly, rhythm, and grace. The spirit of the young girls move those watching to tap or clap along in time to the pipes and drums accompanying their every move. Each dance, each jig, each reel allows the audience to escape the rigors of the day and to become lost in the dance itself. It is easy to see these young women just want to dance.

Colors of royalty are displayed as each troupe takes the stage. The deep, rich purples, greens, blues, and reds differentiate each troupe from the next group of dancers. The dresses are starched until they are stiff and they are adorned with jewels, gilded brocade, Irish symbols, and lace. There is not a seam out of place, not a wrinkle, nor a dress that should have been worn yesterday or tomorrow. The dancers wear them with the pride of a soldier in parade dress. The socks are bleached white and the dance shoes shine, ready to carry the feet in the rhythmic progression of the dance.

As the dancers line the stage to wait for their music, one must notice the hair. The hair is signature for Irish dancers. Full heads of tight, bouncy curls adorn each head. Deep brunettes, vibrant reds, and the whimsical blonds sit atop the heads waiting for the competition to begin.

And so it does. The dancers stand ready. The girls' faces tell of the seriousness of the task at hand. Each troupe is out to capture the title at stake. Their bodies stand erect, muscles tense, one foot raised to its toes until the pipe strikes the first note. Then their feet direct them for the next three minutes. They move in practiced unison with well defined movements of the feet and legs. Their legs move at an unthinkable rate and in sometimes contorted fashion, yet their arms remain motionless. The floor pulses with the beat of their feet as they bob, weave among each other, and twirl in response to the ancient music. With each movement, their heads stay steady but the hair, oh the hair, it bounces with each step. The music ends, the troupe takes a bow, and soon the next troupe takes the stage ready for their chance to capture hearts, if only for a minute.

The dancers wait anxiously to hear the results of the competition, and the winners rush to claim the cup. The troupes all dissolve behind the curtains and the music continues. Soon the dance floor starts to fill again with young girls in shorts, jeans, and t-shirts. Their faces light up at the opportunity to take the dance floor in their terms. They too fly. They twirl and whirl to the beat of the pipes and drums. They dance until they are dizzy. Their sneakers seem to understand the beat just as the tap shoes before them knew the beat. They are transformed into another world. There is an abandon in their dance. It is in contrast to the studied control of the dance troupes. And they dance and they dance.

As I sit mesmerized by the dancers, the serious mothers of the Irish dancers file by me with the girls dresses, trophies, shoes, and then I see it. The hair! The hair is hanging on the top of the hanger. Each complete costume is being protectively removed for the next night of dance. Then I understand the girls on the floor - they are the Irish dancers. Now they dance for the love of the dance, not competition. The competition leaves the room in the hands of the mothers.

And the girls just want to dance.