I don’t know the difference between relevé and développé. Heck, I took French twice in high school and failed both times. So it might seem odd that half my life—my better half—revolves around dance.

 

Perhaps I sealed my fate to become a dance teacher’s husband five years before meeting my wife. At the time, I was dating a single mother who asked if we could watch her daughter’s dance rehearsal for “a few minutes” before going to a movie. Those few minutes became an hour, and then two hours. We never got to the movie.

 

Frazzled by an evening spent surrounded by hundreds of energetic children, obsessed parents, and hysterical dance teachers, I returned home and proclaimed to my family the words that foretold my reverse destiny: “I will never become involved with anyone who has anything to do with a dance school.” I’m certain that God was laughing.

 

I met Kathleen Susa 25 years ago at her sister’s dance school when I worked on a photo shoot for dance-school programs—the last place I expected to find my soul mate. Since I was somewhat backward, she had to make the first move. After the school’s picture-viewing weekend, my boss called me and said, “I’m supposed to tell you that Kathleen has offered you free dance lessons. There, I’ve done my part.” Intrigued, I returned her call and asked about the lessons. “Well, I could give you a private tap lesson,” she said.

 

I had a better idea. “Why don’t we skip the lessons and go to a movie?”

After Kathleen and I began dating, my boss cautioned me. “These are important customers for us. Don’t go messing things up,” he said.  When Kathleen and I became engaged less than eight months later, my boss joked, “I told you not to mess things up, not that you had to marry her!” To this day, he boasts of getting the two of us together.

 

I had much to learn about being a dance teacher’s husband. There have been late nights, microwave dinners, seminars, competitions, and frustration. And when dance teachers get together and start talking, I sometimes feel like a fifth wheel. Then I remember all the times she has endured my baseball-card and comicbook conventions, years of coaching girls’ softball, or late nights at the newspaper. So when she asks about attending seminars, working summer competitions, or getting away for a vacation with friends, I never say no.  Though those times can be lonely, I look forward to the tales of her adventures. I feel as if I know many dance teachers whom I haven’t even met.

 

Sometimes I accompany my wife on her travels. We’ve gone to London as part of a teacher exchange program and visited New York City and Detroit. I looked on with pride when she directed the Junior Miss Dance competition of DMA Pennsylvania Chapter 10.

 

The best part of being a dance teacher’s husband is getting to know the students. I’ve watched, admired, and loved them like family, reveling in their successes, agonizing in their struggles, and crossing my fingers as awards were announced. We’ve hosted student sleepovers at our home, complete with the usual hijinks, such as chewing gum stuck in the carpet, and unusual ones, like a trip to the emergency room to remove a splinter. Students have provided the inspiration for several of my books’ poems and characters; many of them I’d have adopted in an instant. I’m certain that most dance teachers’ husbands share a silent bond created by the extended families they’ve married into.

 

Almost 24 years later, I still can’t speak more than a few words of French and am clueless about what makes a dance look good. But I’ve come to love and respect the art, and I owe my best experiences to the fact that I married a dance teacher. My life wouldn’t be the same without her.

 

 

	Comments
	Story Ideas/Submission