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Submitted by Larry Tsai:

The poster in the cafeteria read: Jr. High Dance, Friday, October 16th, 1970; 8:00 – Midnight, COMMONS

It was simple enough, but no less terrifying; even to a seasoned eighth grader who set foot on campus as a newbie the year before. While I had been able to stay under the social radar in seventh grade, there was no escaping the mounting pressure attending a new year – i.e.,  to show up at the year’s first fête celebrating the entry into teen-hood. No longer could homework, Friday night-neighborhood ping-pong, or TV shows like The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Familyserve as excuses from this call of the wild. Victor Hugo has said that “...nothing else in the world...is as powerful as an idea whose time has come.” And with this, my resolve had been steeled. I AM GOING TO THE DANCE.

With my older sister, Ruthie’s help, I curated my grooviest outfit: Levi bellbottoms, zip-up leather boots, and a striking red turtleneck. On the appointed night, after getting-dropped off at CSHHS’ main entrance, I sauntered through the brightly lit cafeteria to the darkened Commons space whose deafening disco-throb beckoned. Psychedelic images were projected on a wall serving as a backdrop to the featured teen/cover band, who belted out vaguely familiar renditions of: In-a-Gadda-da-Vida, Honky Tonk Woman, Crimson & Clover, etc. So far, so good.

Still ahead, however was the daunting main event, whose impetus taunted me with questions of how, when, and (ugh) with whom I was going to dance. I wasn’t alone in my trepidation, as clusters of young teens -- boys on one side, girls on the other -- formed an uneven perimeter around the dance floor, beyond which few dared to enter. Weak attempts at small talk were offered, though nearly inaudible against the pounding decibel levels. As the night progressed, the dance floor took on a life all its own, radiating a foreboding, but magnetic kind of energy, ...drawing the addition of unsteady entrants who passed through the ring to dance, not unlike moths attracted to light. Indeed, a veritable Ring of Fire had formed, and the effect was mesmerizing. Captivated yet repelled, onlookers kept their distance, though averting one’s eyes from the spectacle was impossible. And yet, after an achingly long delay; the most emboldened made their way forward to issue “the ask.” Those meeting with success found themselves dancing within the ring for all to behold. Those left sidelined, the uncommitted, remained paralyzed by self-consciousness, made worse by an underlying fear of rejection.

And then, for reasons I can’t remember, ...I made my move ... to ask Winnie Cooper* to dance. She graciously assented to join me in this, my first illustrious dance; followed by a few more, plus even a fabled slow dance. After this, Winnieacquiesced into “going steady” with me, for what ended up being seven weeks, most of which was characterized by my fumbling around, to see if I could figure out what a relationship was supposed to be like. During that time, Winnie tendered her thoughtful attention with patience and kindness, however undeserving I was as a fledgling boyfriend. Still, at the time, I’ll never forget the preciousness of being in the throes of a first infatuation.

And so, I survived the terror of this rite of passage in ways that I have not forgotten. I learned that going out on a Friday night was better than staying in. Fruit punch tastes better in a glass (than in a Dixie cup); and that once you start dancing, it’s better to forget about why you resisted in the first place. Most importantly though, when big moments present themselves; sometimes, all you need to do is take the first step. Especially into the Ring of Fire.

*Winnie Cooper, fittingly borrowed from The Wonder Years, is a pseudonym for my first-ever dance partner.