How does that toddler underwear TV spot go--I'm a big kid now" or something like that? Yeah, that's me.
I'm embarrassed to admit I finally attended (strictly as a guest anyway) my first fund raiser recently, for a local Hispanic nonprofit agency. I won't lie though: I was in it 150% for the extracurricular activities. When I first promised a friend I'd go and do my part for a good cause, let's face it--that cause was the live band--a conjunto in Latin terms.
And let me tell you, this gig was most definitely on Latin terms. Hallelujah! Let the fiesta begin.
The week before the event, I asked my friend who the band was.
---Ahh, sabes qué, Nydia, we couldn't get the band after all. We could only get a DJ.
Whaaat? What did she mean they could only get a DJ? Didn't they realize I was rounding up troops for a friendly shimmy-shimmy showdown? What was I going to tell my invited guests?
It's a good thing most of them didn't show. They'd only have gotten my rebellious side.
It's like this. I've never been a stellar conformist. Probably because I've always been the 'different' one:
- The one with dark hair (in the more or less pre-Hispanic Midwest)
- The minister's kid ('priest's kid' when we moved to South Texas...I'll never get that one)
- The one who was a little too 'white' for some friends, and a bit too Hispanic for others (Oreo syndrome, whatever--it's No Man's Land)
That night at the fund raiser, my nonconformist took over.
It was a great event--packed agenda, for sure. Cultural dances, exquisite Latin cuisine, fashion show, more dance exhibitions, auctions silent and not so silent.
And then finally, 10pm struck. The fashion show runway got rolled up. Podiums stashed away. Brooms came out to get the grit off the quasi-parquet surface that was about to let me be me. The parranda got going just moments before my friend and I were about to exit the scene for a more vigorous Plan B.
As often is the case, an oldie but goodie known to salsa dancers everywhere built up slowly over the speakers. (Good sound! Sweet.) It was Grupo Niche's Una Aventura. (Think: "More cowbell.")
It wasn't long before we were rumba-ing to loads of classics, one right after the other. Great stuff from a DJ who knew his crowd of music-hungry Latins.
That's when I got swept up in a conga line.
I don't DO conga lines.
--Vamos! Come on--jump in! they kept yelling to me and my friend. And they would. Not. Give. Up.
My brain told me to run, but I couldn't do that--it would be rude. So I did the next rudest thing. Reluctantly, I joined the line (God help me), took it a few wild directions...and then bailed in a personal detour. But not before I took half the bunch with me, leaving the tail-end of the rumberos feeling a bit decapitated.
I caught a few sneers at first. (That'll show 'em not to recruit a rebel next time.) Lucky for me, I made some friends anyway that night, and we're already making plans for our next fiesta Latina.
Do as I say, not as I do: If you ever have to join a conga line, make sure you really mean it.
