The Courtship Dance

By Emmanuelle

      Our brothers and our sisters who live high up in the Cordilleras have this ritual dance, complete with resounding strings and gongs.

A maiden steps daintily around a tight circle, now and then venturing lightly out of its circumference, but stepping quickly back to the safety of its smallness. In his most colorful costume, a warrior struts around the maiden, armed with spear and other shorter but as equally potent weapons, some glinting unseen, probably all sharply ferocious. He displays firm muscles and even more firm buttocks.

The woman is not frightened. She is not cowed. She knows her moves intend to impress, to astound. Her fierceness is just an act. It is just for show.

The woman is the 2007 electorate. The man is courting her vote.

A parallelism is in place. Read closely between the lines.

When a man goes a-courting, he puts on his best clothes. He shows the woman his best behavior. He tells her what he believes would make him good to her eyes. He dances around her. He says the sweetest words, he will even sing these words for her.

She is not dumb. She demurs; she thinks twice, thrice, more. She knows this is not he, not the real he. He wears a mask. He wears a costume. Sweet, sweet words. To hide his soul, his heart, his mind.

Sugar is not the salt of the earth. Milk deadens the bitter grounds of tea. When you come to me, do not hide behind the whiteness of your teeth. Look straight unto my eyes. Look into me.

Do not promise me the moon; it shines on reflected glory. Do not promise me the stars; these cannot stand the light of day. And the sun is just that, the nearest star.

Tell me of the house you are to build. For our tomorrow. For the days after tomorrow. Which trees to cut, what stone to stack.

Do not tell me, though, of the wrongness in the house that the others had first built for me. I already know; I live in the memory.

I will choose you because I have seen and I have felt the goodness in your heart. Not because you showed me the evil that lurks in the hearts of the others.

You will win my hand because you were meant to, not because you gifted me with more and you gave away the most. The gods do have these strange, beguiling ways of guiding us to our right and proper destinies.

I must have more than my heart as guide. I must have wisdom. For the day I choose you is the day I begin to live my promise. 

And there is no way I can make you hold on to yours . . .  

The Cordillerans have such old, old souls. I do not wonder. They breathe nearer to God.

(For past columns, click http://sundaypunch.prepys.com/archives/category/opinion/feelings/)

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