Dancing...

Saturday night led me to my brother's house for the end of the season fiesta, hosted by the himself and the mexican workers. It involved a delicious cocktail of shrimp in a tomato base with noodles and cilantro, a huge round black-bellied barbequing machine and pork and tortillas, and chilles cooked to perfection by Gorge. Also, there was blueberry wine ala my mom and a keg.

It was supposed to be a happy event, and it was, but there were only three women there and there were only three men who were dancing and the other twenty or so fellows sat on chairs or tree stumps looking slightly melancholy as they imagined their wives and families back in Mexico. Some of them will be returning soon, and some will be staying on in the states for another year or so, traveling to other places to harvest other crops.

Martin allowed himself to drink for the first time all month and got rather drunk, at which point he revealed to me how kind I've always been to him and how much he enjoys my company, someone smart to talk to, and then he revealed how his wife in Mexico is like a stranger to him and how they were so close to getting divorced last time he went home, and how it is a source of pain in his heart that they don't really know each other any more since he travels away for such long periods of time to find work, and he is absolutely miserable and so is she, but his ten year old daughter is ranked second in her entire school and she set a record on the phone last night talking for 45 minutes to him. Martin has a degree in Biology which he earned in Mexico--a very intelligent man, and my 20-year old brother who is still in college is his boss. But Martin is a good man, and helps my brother out a lot, and loves my brother.

My brother was lively and animated, speaking wildly in spanish and gesturing with his arms and hands and making the crowd of guys erupt into laughter. I had no clue what he was saying.

Sean was operating the barbeque, my brother's best friend and a farm worker, and all he can say in spanish is "Pinche ranchero," which means "f------ farm."

When Israel asked me to dance, I threw my hands up in the air and said "why not?" even though we would be the only ones dancing and all eyes would be on us.I was wearing a knee-length silk dress that flirted out at the ends, just right for dancing. He was wearing tight jeans, boots, and a white t-shirt tucked in nicely. He had big, strong arms.

I was amazed at what that man could do. To make things clear, let me explain that while I have sort of figured out how to dance by myself, my only dancing experience with another person was in sixth grade at the gym, where we did the side to side shuffle with stiff arms. Any other attempt has been a catastrophe. But Israel knew what he was doing, and through him, I became a dancer for the first time in my life.

Marriachi music rocks. I was spinning and flying and my feet were moving in intricate little patterns, but the funny thing was that I had no control over it. This man really knew how to move. He moved so well that he even moved me. He held me just right, firmly and gently at the same time, and held my hand in such a way that I felt liberated and free, not cramped and confined. He kept just the right amount of space between us. For once, I didn't feel like my balance was disrupted and I was going to tip over, which is how I usually feel when I try to dance with someone else. I have a history of moving to the beat of my own drum, if you know what I mean. Dancing with someone else usually finds me going one way and my partner going another. But we moved together like magic. He told me que yo apprendo muy rapido y I told him "eres un mentioso."

This man has changed my life.

By the end of the night, when I left, I had made promises to return on Sunday afternoons to play in their weekly game of futbol.

Can't wait.