Argentina Lives Through My Parents' Dances

I suppose I've become a writer so I wouldn't bore everyone to death telling them my stories. Reading them is reading. Not the same. There's rhythm. And timing and, most importantly, drama and suspense. Unless you have tremendous magnetism and an undeniable stage presence, there's no way you can engage an audience the way you can by writing your story. That's my opinion.

I also believe that some things are so powerful, so intense, that they won't sound right in spoken form. But somehow it sounds magnificent in prose. Like a mime expressing love with a gesture. Just a movement, a touch in the texture of time that lands deep into the raging waters of passion that perhaps once was your own. How can the mime get there without words? How indeed.

Music and dance will do it as well. Those two human gifts that stem from the spirit are, unlike other gifts we possess, always on call. Always at the ready. Playing our tunes and dancing to our beat. Like no one is there watching.

No one is listening. No one was there at all. As a matter of fact, even if you aren't a dancer at all, you can't save your life with a tune if that is required. And that's OK. What's needed most is not even physical; it's ethereal. Comes from the source of all that is. From all that flows within; from that place where the most authentic you resides. From that place where there are no masks, nor pretensions, nor behaviours, nor personality. Identifiably you. Where the road ends, and whichever way you turn, you'll end up encountering yourself again. Raw, naked and true. The most comfortable place you could ever wish to be.

There, your soul dances freely, and your voice is in perfect pitch with all the rhythms of the heart and every string of emotion you ever claimed as yours. Nothing else before or after would've been clearer or truer. Or freer.

You could never be truer than you are after that moment.

15 years old...

Planning my next getaway without permission. Buenos Aires, 22nd of May, 1979...

In general, my life was a mind-numbing routine day after day, with my brain constantly trying to figure out ways to escape, again, hopefully with a different outcome this time around. The main idea was to remain "free" and on the road as long as possible before I was shipped home again. And start the same routine, beginning with payback of all sorts, plus grounding, cessation of privileges (which I never knew what they were), assorted finger wagging and guilt trips, accusations, true or false, no phone calls, shorts instead of trousers as a form of degrading punishment. Back in those days, allegedly, only "real men" wore pants. In contrast, children wore school shorts, usually navy blue with the school insignia printed on the side, for deeper humiliation, etc.

The one thing that went in my favour was that I managed to trick them into believing that I hated going to Nanna for days on end, when in fact, I loved it. It seems the more I complained about not wanting to go there, the more days they gave me to do exactly that.

Ahh, soccer after school suspended indefinitely. And there was nothing I could do about it...

But at least I succeeded in staying the longest on the loose, and I kept them posted by sending letters or telegrams regularly, if I could afford them. To me, that was once weekly, which was an atrocity according to them. When I was "returned", I counted 27 days on the run, which I chalked up as a big victory. But then again, I was running severely low with my stamp collection of "Argentina Independence Anniversary: ??? Years". The other, a collection of "Brazilian soccer: Glory!" was long gone, and I hated it when people asked me if I had any of those left. Adding insult to injury, if you asked me, but hey, those were the days.

Back into the world...

Dad was crazy about tango. And hence, it drove my mum crazy, too. They both ended up the same way. I'm surprised they didn't open an academy. Being the only child in their madness, I spent countless evenings with my Nanna, listening to her tell me stories about seances and the afterlife. She was very much into the spiritual realm, and truly, after a while, I couldn't get enough of it. Better than being alone, after all. So, the lovebirds went to communal dances, contests, ballrooms, and even birthdays to show off their new moves. And they HAD to go to all of them. Sporadically, they would spend hours preparing, and Mum would get prettier just to gather for an hour or two, then leave the same way they came – quickly. What show-offs! But that was the scene in Buenos Aires in the 70s. And the safest thing to do. Because chances were, if you weren't doing something visible and public, according to the military junta, you were a subversive. They would just pick you up, and who knows when or if you would be seen again.

My parents were, like 90% of Argentines, displeased with the political situation in the country; they were equal to dissenters, rebels, and subversives. But you couldn't tell when you saw them dancing. The passionate display of marked steps and pauses that made tango the art form it is today couldn't have been achieved without the blood, sweat, and tears of the most incredible dancers who came before them. My parents knew it, and they sought to reproduce the past, one fancy step at a time.

As they were having a ball, I had my good times too with the psychic, so much so that at times, I would rather not leave, especially when I had just arrived an hour or so earlier. I demanded my rights to no avail and was summarily pulled from an ear, out the door. Occasionally, they'd bring me with them, but most of the time, they'd not. When they did, I witnessed what these two were up to, besides giving everyone a grandiose spectacle. They were tuning in to the moment with a timeless tradition of dance and rhythm until the hearts of everyone present were filled with the nostalgic flair of the past. Tango Renaissance and a revolution in progress, with my parents as true protagonists of that era. And it was an incredibly difficult time. More sorrow than joy with so many people affected by the Machiavellian tactics of the unelected ones. Many young people have gone missing, including artists, intellectuals, and writers.

More than everyone knew at the time. Argentina was like the killing fields of Cambodia without the skulls to show. Daily life turned into a time of survival, with no one knowing who would be the next to go. “Disappeared" became a verb of intention, not an abstract of fate. All my parents could do was keep a low profile and tango away the wounds felt by almost everyone save the complicit. One show at a time, one birthday, or one presentation.

After the Falklands War disaster, the iron fist of the junta became so repressive that living was equal to dying. Suddenly, there was no food in the markets, inflation was devastating, and no one had the right to protest. Or any other human right. The situation became unsustainable; everything was collapsing from its own weight. The domino effect ad infinitum.

The military junta couldn't hold on. It was finally over.

Within a year, they were all jailed, prosecuted, and sentenced, judged by their peers and the entire country. The courts were primarily tasked with enforcing the laws and ensuring that nothing was overlooked, no stone left unturned. Argentina was done with the nightmare of oppression, done with the injustices for so long, but scarred, heavily scarred for the disappearances of so many. A count reaching as high as 30,000 plus, a useless war against a superpower that was used as a distraction, with more lives lost and a disastrous economy as a result. It took 35 years for the country to see sunshine again. Many mothers died in anguish, knowing they would never see their children again. Many mothers are still carrying the signs with photos of their kids in Plaza de Mayo.

Tireless, committed, yet broken inside. Las Madres de la Plaza de Mayo (The Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo) gave us all a lesson in resilience with humility. Lest we forget.

However, as George Harrison famously said, “All Things Must Pass”, and this was no different.

The poet Rumi wrote this excellent quote:

“Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes around in another form.”

The young, lucky enough to survive unscathed, lived to sing and dance another day.

Until next time…

Love,

René