That kind of music wasn't allowed at Bob Wilson.
When we arrived at the beige stucco studio on Medical Parkway, we noted whatever witticism Mr. Wilson had chosen to display that week on his outdoor sign. Such as: "I drink Metracal for lunch ... along with my steak and potatoes!"
Inside the studio, we lined up on benches facing two mirrored walls. There were strict dress codes. Boys tucked in their button-down Oxford shirts and girls wore dresses, hose with garter belts, and nice shoes. Mr. Wilson counseled the boys on more than one occasion about the importance of using deodorant.
I still remember who had cold, sweaty palms, who smelled like Clearasil and who wore British Sterling or English Leather or (shudder) Jade East cologne. The girls smelled of Avon's Topaze perfume and Aqua Net hair spray.
Mr. Wilson always wore a dark suit, his dark hair glossy with Brylcreem. He talked a little like Lawrence Welk.
"Wunnerful a' wunnerful!" he would exclaim after a nimble move by one of the few class members who was actually good at executing them. He would guide us through the steps for swing while uttering the mantra: "Tap the toe and tap the toe and rock ... rock."
Though we had to share the boys, he made sure all of the girls got to dance. Twice a year, he held a dance at someplace like the Villa Capri Motor Hotel to prove that dancing was something you had to know to survive in the larger social world.
None of us was where we wanted to be at that time of our lives. We had braces and pimples and hair that wasn't up to Seventeen magazine standards. No amount of hair spray and ratting would make my hair hold a flip. There was the secret shame of having to wear headgear at night to push back stubborn molars.
The boys were just beginning to grow their locks longer, like a Beatle or Illya Kuryakin on the "Man From U.N.C.L.E" TV show. And because we were so far from perfection ourselves, we were often cruel to anyone perceived as being even further down the social ladder. Would we have been nicer to each other if we'd known how everyone would turn out?
There was poor Kermit, taunted because of his name and pesty weirdness. If we had known that as an adult he would be gunned down by his deranged brother, barricaded in a house full of explosives, would we have cut him some slack?
There was affable Gary with the wicked sense of humor who'd dance gamely with all the girls and would later succumb to AIDS.
There was the diplomatic Sandy, perhaps the only boy who mastered the samba, who would make a name for himself in politics and community affairs.
There was the bouncy, too-brilliant Val; the boys ran from her, but she would later catapult past them as the head of radiology at a large Portland hospital.
Then there was nerdy, freckled me — whose first name, Gayland, always put me in the boys gym class on the first day of school — and who later actually got to use my Bob Wilson skills on one of the most-watched TV shows of the year.
OK, it took awhile, and I had to pay my dues first with all kinds of gigs. Maybe you caught me as a dancing zombie in "Z: A Zombie Musical"?
But because I had ballroom dancing on my acting résumé, I eventually got my turn with Emmitt Smith, former Dallas Cowboy and winner of "Dancing With the Stars," in an H-E-B commercial that aired during the Super Bowl last year.
The very happy lady in the pink blouse, the one he twirled and dipped in the meat department? The one with the (perfectly presentable) blond flip? That was me.
Ballroom is finally back, and I hope Bob Wilson lived long enough to see it.
Gayland Turman Williams is an actress, textbook sales consultant and former schoolteacher who lives with her husband, Roger, in Northwest Austin.
This is a continuing series of personal essays grounded in Austin. Submit your own tale of the city (1,000 words or less) to tales@statesman.com for consideration by our editors.
