It’s not unusual to hear New Yorkers talk about “before 9/11” and “after 9/11.” It’s certainly how I measure my time here. There’s the Before, and the After. 

For weeks after 9/11, I felt constantly afraid. The endless screech of the bus disc brakes as they inched down Second Avenue left me no peace in my apartment. The stench of the huge downtown crematoria wafting into my windows was a constant reminder of agonizing, unanticipated death. Buildings all over the neighborhood were covered with thousands of handmade posters begging for information about lost loved ones. Memorial candles literally covered Union Square. There was nowhere to go that didn’t scream, “Terrorist attack.”

I thought then of leaving New York City. The idea of going someplace quiet and safe allowed me to take a breath now and then, Ultimately, I decided that leaving would be disloyal and cowardly. Better to stay and tough it out in the way New Yorkers have done since Europeans first cheated the locals out of Manhattan.

Eventually, life settled back into a semblance of normal. But I was still scared. So I went back into therapy, with someone I came to love and admire. But I was still scared. It could’ve been a friend’s suggestion, or it could’ve been happy memories of dance classes in junior high school. Whatever it was, it got me to Sandra Cameron Dance Center, and the study of partner dancing. 

I danced the waltz. The fox trot. American tango. Cha cha. Bachata. Merengue. And this thing called salsa. For me, partner dancing became about two people, a woman and a man, working together to create something beautiful on the dance floor. There weren’t many men who were able to do that skillfully with me. I’m always apologizing for missteps, my hips don’t have a great deal of swing, I lack the requisite pony tail to slash his face as I turn. And I wasn’t young, even then!

But after a night of dancing, I went home and slept soundly. And the next day, I felt renewed and invigorated, and found myself looking forward to the next dance. Looking forward was a big change, after 9/11.

Eventually, the intoxicating syncopated rhythms of “salsa” music, also known as mambo, became my obsession. I left the waltz, tango and fox trot behind and entered into the fray of “dancing on 1 vs dancing on 2” with enthusiasm, vowing to learn both. I even learned to follow the lead of men who danced to a beat I could hardly distinguish as 1, 2, or even 3 (as shown in the video). 

(Perhaps there is a whole blog to be written about the dance. Someone must lead, and someone must follow. Many of the hard-driving career women I know find it impossible to follow. Yes, maybe this needs some writing on another day.)

Eventually, over the years, I stopped thinking so much of 9/11, and why other human beings hated us so much that they gave their lives in order to kill as many of us as possible. Most Friday nights were spent dancing, and often Saturdays, too. I even met some men on the dance floor who I thought might want to partner me in other ways, as well, although I was mistaken. Still, there was the thrill of possibly dancing beautifully with an apt partner, and the delicious exhaustion of a night well-danced, and the enchanting rhythms and hypnotic voices of all the salsa greats — Richie Ray y Bobby Cruz, Hector Lavoe and Willie Colon, all the Fania All Stars…the list is endless. 

Today, I dance alone, in subway stations with slippery floors, or in my living room. But I have such gratitude for my days as a salsera. Many times I have told people that salsa — the music and the dance — saved my life.