Some years ago I spent several months teaching English to one family of refugees from Kosovo during the weekends. I first met them while working as an interpreter, and the story of their personal plight, of their escape under gunfire and the rebuilding of their lives from scratch and in harrowing conditions, touched me deeply. I wanted to do something, so I offered to help them in the one way I could at the time – by giving free English lessons to their 6 year old son.
Soon I started giving lessons to his father as well, and it proved to be as interesting a challenge as is working with a hyperactive boy. Although he was in his late 20s/early 30s and working with computers was part of his job, he understood practically no English at all. He literally only knew a few simple words, like how to say Yes, No, Ok and Hello.
I was thinking up ways of how to teach him a foreign language from scratch, and I decided to try with the Michel Thomas method, which had helped me get a good enough basic grasp of Spanish a few years earlier.
It was a very slow process: Learning one small word at a time, combining words into short sentences, pointing to objects, giving them names, learning the pronunciation, correcting the mistakes, repeating, repeating, repeating… Yet we were making progress, and at one point we decided we could make the learning more fun with a song.
”Who’s your favourite English singer or band?” I asked him. I didn’t know what to expect and I had my prejudices, as these people, wonderful as they were, were from a small village in Kosovo.
”Oh, well, I love Nick Cave” he said.
My priceless attempt at a deadpan expression lasted only a few seconds. My eyes spread in wonderment: ”Nick Cave? You listen to Nick Cave?” You really listen to Nick Cave?”
”Er, yes. I don’t really understand what he’s singing, but I like the music, and I like his voice.”
I couldn’t believe it. I loved Nick Cave. We’ll use music we both love to help him learn English.
I picked The Weeping Song. It was slow, with fairly simple words and lots of repetition, and, of course, beautiful.
We started going through the lyrics, one word and phrase at the time. Progress was painstakingly slow, like climbing a huge mountain of meaning, and you have so little with which you can grab at it.
But progress we did make. The deeper we went into the song, the more elated both of us were feeling. As the knowledge was welling up inside him, I felt as if something was building up in me too.
We finally reached the last verse. I played the song again, a hundredth time, but now it was completely different. Now we both knew what the words meant.
The song started.
It would take me almost an hour by bus to get to this family, and several times I would spend the journey standing,pressed tightly between tired bodies with sweaty clothes and empty expressions – the neighbourhood where the family lived had many more sad stories. In these moments (and not only here), exposed to this grim atmosphere, I wondered whether this whole thing was worth it. I knew that they appreciated my help, but were these classes meaningful? Were they really making a difference?
The song started. Eyes focused on the lyrics we’ve written out by hand, he sang in a quiet voice, a voice with many layers whose richness started to unfold before me. In it one could feel the effort of trying to do something which was until recently completely alien. And yet, at the same time, there was also a lightness to his tone, the ease of having rehearsed that something many times. Above it all, there was that simple joy of learning and the thrill of finally understanding what was until recently a string of meaningless sounds.
All of these layers, and much more, flowed over me and overwhelmed me. I couldn’t contain my open-mouthed smile as I stared at him in joy with eyes wide as saucers, like those of a 6 year old boy. I had a distinct, intense feeling of being privileged to witness something truly special happening within those four walls. It was as if we were contained in our very own bubble, like two human beings in a desert under the chilly night sky, cut off from the rest of the world, happily huddled around a fire that gave warmth, life and meaning, sharing something sacred between themselves.
I remembered my doubts and questions in those bus rides. They all evaporated in that one moment. Their purpose was clear: they had to be tough and it was necessary to struggle to overcome them, in order to selflessly give again and again, until what was given was enough to create something much greater than the individual parts.
That something was now there, and for a few moments I basked in its glow. Then it was gone, as quickly as it came. He was still singing his song, seemingly unaware of what I have just experienced. As he reached the last verse, he turned towards me with a wide grin on his face: ”Wow, that was great! I can finally understand it!”
Some weeks after that afternoon I stopped visiting this family due to various circumstances. Since then, I have never experienced anything close to that feeling.
Until a few weeks ago. That last dance, though bearing a different feeling, was, I think, a product of similar circumstances. I have given so much to tango in the past year, and I have received a lot in return. But there were many struggles to overcome, fights with my ego, fights with the egos of others, and while there was a number of victories, subconsciously I felt like I didn’t get nearly as much from them as I should have.
But that night, like that afternoon in that small room years ago, was not a freak accident of good but random circumstances. It was a product of a person’s effort – all that giving, all that building, offered me that glimpse into something much bigger and deeper than what one expects to find.
And this time, I feel like it can happen again; and it can be deeper and last longer than the previous one.
And yet, I can’t really aim for it. Rather, I can strive to be more present in this moment, more humble in that one, more aware of my partner in this one, and again and again and again. Always focusing on what’s right, always focusing on what matters the most.
And then, when I don’t expect it any more, it will come.
Lessons from tango 