tradition

We’re dancing. I am looking down at the sets of socks and slippers stepping together in rhythm, forward and back, following each other in a line, adding their own circular embellishment to the pattern on the rug. No one is barefoot and no one has shoes on. We have left our shoes at the door or carefully placed them in rows outside on the balcony. Once I begin to remember the rhythm I can look up, still uh-huh-huh-ing the beat in my head and visualizing the next steps, but also watching the faces. Chins held not up but evenly, not attention seeking, but gratified by admiration or appreciation. Then when someone makes a joke or begins to add still more enthusiasm to their movements, smiles that break forth with unguarded reciprocation.

No one makes nice speeches about their love and respect for each other. They don’t have to because they know how to demonstrate, how to act out the abiding joy of family by joining hands, agreeing in the same steps right and left, facing each other, accepting God’s gifts of music and bodies to move with it.

Now we’ve gone around a few times and my feet begin to follow on their own, and I begin to wonder: For how many hundreds of years have people been dancing these same steps? None of us who repeat this folk dance can explain where it came from, when or why it started, and we can’t fathom each of the individuals that have been accepted in and contributed to that social act.

This was my second trip to Italy with the Gypsy man to visit his family. The first time we had a wedding celebration at a large rented venue and invited many friends and relatives. We danced from 4 pm until 2 am. But weddings are not the only occasions Roma find to dance. This time it was our smaller immediate family and we were dancing in the living room, celebrating an event called Koombarluko (my own invented spelling): a child’s first haircut.

It usually occurs close to the first birthday, but we figured eight months was close enough to have the party for our baby while we were there for Christmas. We chose a kumitsa (a godmother, basically), one of the Gypsy man’s sisters, to be the one to cut her hair. It must be done before the sun comes up, so everyone woke up at what I call an ungodly hour and dressed to the nines before gathering at my in-laws. I remember sort of rolling out of bed when people were already starting to arrive, surprised to see a hazy sunless light peeking through the cracks of the shutters, and joining my sisters in law in the washroom to do my hair and makeup. Music was starting in the living room. By the time we were ready and had the baby up and dressed, we only had a few minutes before the sun would rise, and we came out in the living room to see a table spread with snacks, hot drinks, and pastries that my mother in law had prepared. One of my sisters in law was there late the night before, decorating a highchair with red sequined fabric and gold tassels so that it would looks like a throne.

We placed our baby there and sat on either side of her while everyone else gathered around to watch. The kumitsa, with the guidance of my mother in law, carefully snipped off a little of her extra long baby hairs in front and on each side, and placed the hair in a basket decorated with fabric and flowers. She proceeded to dress our baby again in a shiny pink dress, tights, and shoes—all gifts from her. Then she lifted her three times in the air. Others placed money (in amounts I thought overly generous) in the basket with the hair. Then we presented our gifts to each of the family members. We went shopping ahead of time to find an article of clothing for each family member: dresses or sets of clothes for the kids, nice sweaters or shirts for the adults. They don’t need to be wrapped, only carefully folded. The Gypsy man held them while I took one at a time from him and presented them to each family member, starting with the oldest and proceeding one by one to the youngest, each time exchanging a kiss on each cheek. When these ceremonies were over, we enjoyed the rest of the morning dancing, talking, and laughing. Later, we would need to find running water, a river or stream, and toss in the little bit of cut hair.

I asked my mother in law one night to explain the significance of this event and the meaning of each of its rituals. We were all sitting around visiting, and the room became a little more quiet when I asked my question. She sort of shrugged and began to say searchingly, “Well…it’s important…because…I suppose…the child needs to be healthy—” when my sixteen-year old brother in law cut her off saying provokingly to the room: “Basically, we have no idea.” Everyone laughed, and my Gypsy man turned to me and by way of further explanation raised both arms in a Tevye-worthy shimmy singing, “Traditiooon…Tradition!”