Ballroom Dancing By Jamie Kirkpatrick

There is an attic at the top of the stairs of my mind. I don’t go there very often because it’s musty, full of cobwebs, odds and ends, boxes of faded photo albums, and trunks of old clothes that no longer fit. But all this chatter about a new ballroom for the White House sent me up into that attic to see what I could find. I rummaged among my memories and finally found what I was looking for: my old dance card from Mrs. Burgwin’s Dancing School…

I was in sixth grade when my mother signed me up for dancing school at the Twentieth Century Club in Pittsburgh with the legendary Mrs. Burgwin. I have no idea why she did that. My family wasn’t all that social, but maybe Mom figured a few lessons in manners and the social graces would be good for her baby. I was not at all enthusiastic, but since several of my school mates had also been press-ganged into Mrs. Burgwin’s service, I decided to make the best of it. 

Every other Friday night for several weeks, I was thrown into the back of the family car, face washed and hair combed, necktied, suited, and white gloved, and off I went to Dancing School. There were two instructors. Mrs. Stewart was the Assistant Instructor; she was young and pretty, and she looked like Mary Tyler Moore on the Dick Van Dyke Show. But it was Mrs. Burgwin who was the undisputed Mistress of Dancing School. In stark contrast to Mrs, Stuart, she looked like Dame Maggie Smith’s version of Granny on Downtown Abbey. She dressed like her, too, and she was adamant we should learn how to waltz, fox trot, and cha-cha. There certainly weren’t any lessons in the jitterbug, tango, or twist because Mrs. Burgwin thought those dances were the devil’s playground.

Each week, the boys and girls—or, as Mrs. Burgwin insisted on calling us, “young gentlemen” and “young ladies”—were assigned partners. Mrs Stewart (who once danced in the arms of Arthur Murray!) and her partner would then gracefully demonstrate the proper steps while Mrs. Burgwin watched from the sidelines, making sure there was no monkey business on the dance floor. Proper etiquette was the order of the day, and Mrs. Burgwin was there to enforce the appropriate rules of the road and to administer rebuke to anyone who dance-stepped out of line. She scared the bejesus out of us, but our parents were grateful to her for doing God’s work.

Anyway, that was my introduction to ballroom dancing. The thing is, I don’t think I ever put any of Mrs. Burgwin’s lessons into practice. A few years after Dancing School, there was the occasional Deb Party, but I don’t remember much dancing going on. Surreptitious swigging, certainly, but never a waltz, fox trot, or cha-cha. By the time I got to college, no one ever waltzed, fox trotted, or cha-cha’d anymore—we either danced like sweaty lunatics, or we clung to each other in dark corners—so I guess all those dance lessons went for nought. That was when I decided to store Mrs. Burgwin and her dance lessons up in my mental attic, but all these years later, when I saw that the East Wing of the White House was being demolished in order to make way for a gigantic gilded ballroom, I went back up into the rafters of my mind to find my white gloves and to dust off my old dancing shoes.

Not!

Friends: our government has been shuttered for nearly a month. People are losing their jobs, their access to health care, their livelihood. Free speech is no longer free. Funding for important research is disappearing like rain in the desert. Schools are closing. Innocent people are being rounded-up and sent away to unspeakable places. And now carrier groups and fighter squadrons are on their way to Venezuela. Anything to distract us from the larceny taking place right before our eyes. But don’t worry: soon, those among us deemed light enough on their feet will be invited to the Trump Ballroom to dance the night away while the Marine Band strikes up “Nearer My God To Thee.” 

Mrs. Burgwin—wherever you are— I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t waltz, fox-trot, or cha-cha to this madman’s music.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.