By Mark Johnson
All the couch therapy in the world can’t take the place of just going out and doing what ever it is that makes your knees wobble… like my first ever slow dance with the prettiest girl in school.
It wasn’t easy growing up the youngest brat-child of three in a fire and brimstone Pentecostal family. Dad was “old school,” thus I was routinely dealt whippings for kiddy crimes and misdemeanors. It wasn’t that l was a juvenile delinquent; I just couldn’t keep track of all the rules. It seemed everything I thought cool and fun was a “sin.”  No movies, no comic books, no dancing, no rock and roll… no nothing.
I still have a collection of old grade cards from Orangedale Elementary in Phoenix. Teacher’s Comments read: “Mark is capable of better grades.” Parents Comments read: “Mark got a whipping for these grades.” One time, as Dad was taking off his belt to do what he always claimed hurt him more that it hurt me, I asked, “Where in the Bible does it say “D’s” are a sin?”  Never question scriptural interpretation from someone whose Bible margins are scribbled full of notes and every verse is underlined.
In those days teachers filled out grade cards and put them in sealed manila envelopes for students to take home to their parents. One term I couldn’t bare the humiliation of one more set of licks for poor grades. With the help of a devious “friend” who could “pick” a sealed envelope faster than JFK could say, “Ask Not,” I changed a couple “D’s” to “B’s.” I earned twice the licks for that crime, was grounded for a month, and, worst of all, no TV. I missed an entire season of “The Beverly Hillbillies.” That hurt more than any whipping.
I hadn’t been out of “jail” two weeks before the devil in me told a little “white lie.” It was time for the annual Christmas “social” at Orangedale. Ok, it was really a school dance, but social sounded better when I asked my parents if I could go. I told them it was just a party; “Christmas carols, and stuff.” Dad dropped me at the curb and told me to meet him back there at 8:45.
I was dressed in my Sunday best, including a spray-starched white shirt with a clip-on tie. I felt anxious; I didn’t even know how to dance, but there I was… walking in the door.
The cafeteria still smelled of the fish sticks we had for lunch. Tables were gone and chairs were lined against the walls; girls on one side, boys on the other. Red and green Christmas ribbons sagged from light to light… only half of which were on. It was creepy dark, as in dance hall beer joint dark. I stood with my back to the boy’s wall and sifted through the scant light for a certain gal across the room. I was looking for Rita Curry, the prettiest girl in school, and way out of my league. But I had a secret crush and it wasn’t a sin to “look” (later I would learn a Biblical technicality… that it can be sin to look).
Music suddenly blared from the P A system… dirty rock and roll music. “Dear God, if the ‘Rapture’ happens tonight I’m dead meat.” I got in a line for punch and cookies, still searching for Rita Curry. Finally a couple gals ran out and began Twisting to Chubby Checker; sure enough, one of them was my crush. I fell head-over-heels in puppy love, gazing at her practiced, confident and sensual gyrations.
I was both disappointed and relieved to learn that girls danced with girls at parties, while guys looked on and played grab-ass. There wasn’t one single coed dance all night. For me, it was enough to be anywhere besides church… listening to the devil’s dirty rock and roll and watching pretty girls in skirts Twist, Pony, Jerk and Hand Jive. It was 1962, I was all of twelve years old, and I was headed straight to hell.
The first and only slow dance song played about the time I was supposed to meet Dad. It was “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” by The Tokens. I loved that song but couldn’t risk dad finding me in this iniquitous circumstance. As I hustled across the room to the exit someone grabbed my arm and asked if I would like to dance. It was Rita Curry.
She was so beautiful I was momentarily struck dumb. Her white blonde hair framed a button nose, deep blue eyes and perfect smile. “Social butterflies” flitted about my stomach; legs wobbled with weakness. “Rita,” I finally said, hesitating… embarrassed, “I don’t know how to slow dance.”
“Well I’m gonna teach you then.”
She put one hand in mine, the other on my shoulder, and two-stepped me around the room. Time stood still; classmates looked on in disbelief; and I suppressed a dumb impulse to ask Rita Curry to go “steady.”