Tapping Into Something Great

Tap dancing has roots in Chinatown. A product of 19th century Irish and Black immigrants being smashed together in tight quarters, its bright percussion is unmistakable. Two hundred years later, I practiced a restrained rendition of the tap routine I was learning while waiting for the B at Grand Street. Since starting the “Ultimate Beginners Workshop” at Steps on Broadway, the muted drum of the rubber soles of my sneakers dig-brush-stepping on the subway platform replaced the music I normally listened to while commuting. I focused my attention on a rat sniffing for snacks in the tracks to get the next part of the choreography right. The clang-hiss-screech of the train’s arrival drowned out the sound of my shoes, but I kept moving my feet to the rhythm in my head. I couldn’t wait to get uptown, strap into my metal-plated Mary Janes, and make noise one more time.

The tap classes were originally a Christmas gift for my friend, Emily, but I couldn’t help it. I bought a pack for myself. On the evening of our first class, I arrived half an hour early. In my excitement to learn about tap — to discover the curious way two feet in two unassuming shoes could knock out a symphony — I forgot my physical body would have to be there, too. I wondered if my ankles would snap or if my breasts would slap together when I bounced, somehow clapping louder than a classroom of people with metal drilled into their soles.

It couldn’t happen, but as a fat woman, it’s hard not to feel self conscious about the noises I make — the friction of my jeans, the squeak of my shoes, the laboring of my breath while walking uphill. Even when I’m asleep, I wonder if my neighbors are bothered by my snoring. Why the hell did I think stomping around on wood with metal in my feet would be fun for me? It was too late to turn back.