back, and the Americans stepped away inrnconfusion. Europe, the modern world,rnpsychiatry: all gone. Three days inrnMadrid, and I was finally in Spain.rnHands in the air, their hands much ofrnthe dance, the women swirled and spunrnslowK’. Some danced with each other,rnsome by themselves, others pulled thern12-year-old girls onto the floor to teachrnthem. Paco, a military psychiatrist in hisrn50’s with a large belly, watched his wife’srndancing with adoration, as if he had neverrnseen this entrancing creature beforernthis magical night. Barely moving hisrnfeet to punctuate her movements, he becamerna modest accompanist to his wonderfulrnwife.rnWith their dance, the people of Spainrnjerked me into a world of magicians, hypnotists,rngypsies, power, identit)’. Europernwas a conceit, America a hollow thing,rnbut Spain lived. The music started, thernEuropean face disappeared, and I wasrnamong the people who had spent sevenrncenturies fighting the Moors, from whomrnthey had taken this dance as finally theyrnhad taken back all of Spain. The dancersrnwere from a particular place, with a specificrnhistory, a great and long and difficultrnhiston-. Each dancer was a woman, not arnperson, and those who admired her werernmen.rnThe dance was intensely sensual andrnutterly proper. The few men still on thernfloor danced with their wives; mothersrndanced with daughters. Paco, whosernown mother lived with him, stood entrancedrnby the mother of his children.rnHis intense love for his wife was bound tornand by his church, his mother, his children,rnand his friends. His love was bothrnproper and erotic, his pleasure wrappedrnround with stability, his self-control integratedrnwith vibrant, pulsing life and love.rnWlien Paco talked to me that night, herndidn’t use the word for wife; instead hernsaid tu mu/’er—your woman —his choicernof words reflecting the fact that her womanlinessrnwas the issue.rnAs the women danced, an Americanrngirl of 20 walked by. She had a tattoo onrnthe nape of her neck, and on her lip therernwas a faint scar where once she had wornrna small stud. Tonight, her hair was arnshade between orange and pink. “Willrnsomebody tell me why there are onlyrnwomen out on the dance floor?” she demandedrnof me. She was angr)’, sure thatrnif only women were dancing, someonernwas being oppressed. I thought the’ hadrnbeen liberated.rn”There’s a rifle about this,” I said.rn”You don’t know it, and I don’t know it,rnbut they all do, and the) re following it.rnWe used to have this, but we’ve lost it.rnThese people are a tribe.”rnLater that night, I asked Cuca, a physicianrnfrom the northern city of Oviedo,rnabout the dance. Not knowing the wordrnfor tribe in Spanish, I struggled to conveyrnTHE LU/ENGLISH NEWSLETTERrn” . . . hilarious spoof. . . right on the money . . . delightful parody . . . arnwork of genius”—Roger Kimball, The New Criterion, “accurate andrnsavage”—Edward O. Wilson, Harvard University, “wit, astuteness ancirnsheer intelligence”—Alan Charles Kors, University of Pennsydvania.rn”&%#*! Eiirotrash”—Lulubelle Shreclildte, Lagado University.rnLU/English Newsletter, 11 Llewellyn Place, New Brunswick, NJ 08901rnOne year subscription, four issues of seven pages each. $10.00rnN.AME:rnADDRESS:rnCITY: STATE:rnZIP:rnthe idea of what I’d seen. “I’m from a nation,rna country. But you are a people.”rnWith the same gesture and the samernexpression I’d seen the new bride usernwhen she was teased by the groom, Cucarnraised a finger and wagged it back andrnforth. “No,” she said in Spanish. “Wernare one blood.” There might be Basquesrnor Catalans who would disagree with her.rnBut there were few Basques or Catalansrnamong the women dancing on the floor.rnLeaving the reception, I mentionedrnthe dancing to the groom as we stood onrnthe small porch of the hunting lodge.rn”Europe is nothing,” I said. “The musicrnstarted, and all of that disappeared.”rnHe was a litfle drunk and was sayingrngoodbye to friends he wouldn’t see againrnfor months. Some, he would never seernagain. Scienfist, physician, psychiatrist,rnhe beamed, lighting up the night. “I lovernthat kind of thing!” he roared.rnMy progressive American friendsrnwoifld say that to belong to a tribe is anrnevil thing, that tribes are the cause of discrimination,rnpogroms, and war. Theyrnwould cite Bosnia, Kosovo, the Kurds inrnTurkey, the Hutus and Tutsis, the CypriotrnGreeks and Turks. 1 might reply thatrnthere are tribes who make good neighbors:rnthe Swiss, the Amish. I live in arnneighborhood where I am surrounded byrnOrthodox Jews. When I run at night, Irnwave and say hello to them. They seldomrnanswer or even acknowledge me,rnbut I know I am safe, even from their adolescents,rnwho walk to temple with theirrnparents. My friends would sa such tribesrnare the exceptions, safe onl’ because thevrnare few in number. That line of debate isrnsterile.rnBetter to say that w ithout such belonging,rnwe decline into the things that Americarnhas become. If wc belong to nothing,rnwe become no one. Our marriages fail,rnour streets are unsafe, our children becomernlost and go to their schools to killrneach other. Our erotic love cannot bernstable; what stability there is has litfle life.rnBetter to say there is no escape from thisrndilemma, that this is our tragedy. This isrnwho we are.rnA second American woman in her earlyrn30’s, never married, came up to mernsoon after the Spanish women hadrndanced. She was sweating a litfle fromrndancing herself I had neer seen her sornexcited. She was a social worker whornthought herself progressive, and I wonderedrnif she would agree with the Americanrngirl who had been so disapproving.rnHesitanflv, I asked her if she had seenrnNOVEMBER 1999/39rnrnrn