About two years ago, I met a man who became my good friend. We met in ballroom dance class. I’m a dancer, he’s not. That didn’t keep him from coming to class. After class, we enjoyed talking with each other. We had many similarities and many differences.
In a world of texting, conversations are beginning to be a lost art. Since we’re both older, we enjoy the art of verbal conversation. It helps that he’s an engaging story teller. A conversation isn’t a monologue or singular speech act. It’s a process where two or more people engage with one another in interaction that has multiple turns. Participants may also use nonverbal signals to communicate effectively.
I also love the art of communication. When I was growing up in poverty in the segregated South, I wasn’t as verbal. Even then, I loved to dance. Dancing made me feel a profound feeling a freedom. My mind left the shack and segregated world I was living in, and I became fully engaged in the music and movements. Dancing can reduce stress hormones and release endorphins.
My friend came to dance class faithfully. For some reason, he preferred to dance with me. Maybe it was because I had patience. Maybe it was because he saw in me a part of him from his childhood. A childhood he found difficult to talk about at times.
We grew up in different generations. He was a poor white boy from a small town in the South. He loved music and learned to play the trombone. He excelled and received a musical scholarship to college. Growing up poor made him realize he needed to be more than a musician. His goal was to get out of that small town and see the world. That he did!
A generation later, I was a poor Black girl who grew up in a big city in the South. I loved music but couldn’t play a musical instrument. My two older brothers were gifted musicians. I tried to play a clarinet but after one year, gave up. Growing up poor made me realize it was best for me to focus on my academic studies. I received a partial academic scholarship to college.
Because of childhood poverty, we both had to battle emotions and unpack trauma and anger we didn’t know we had. We felt invisible to those unlike us. We didn’t know there was a name for it but learned we were affected by childhood trauma.
It took over fifty years for our lives to cross paths. We were both widowed, veterans, and living in the same city in the integrated South. We had many in-depth conversations about our lived experiences. We both grew up in poverty but had parents who believed in a better future for us. In return, we believed in ourselves, put in the hard work, and we had successful careers. We both share a goal of trying to empower others who grew up like us.
My friend is a thoughtful man and brought me some red roses. To us, red roses mean new beginnings. These beginning involve fresh starts, individual growth, and personal transformations. It’s an opportunity to remember the past, but not dwell in it. It’s an opportunity to explore new possibilities, embrace change, and evolve in ways we never imagined before.
I’m still trying to teach him how to dance, and he promised to teach me how to play a musical instrument. It doesn’t matter if we’re successful or not. We’re sharing life and having fun!
It’s never too late for new beginnings!
Francie Mae. May 30, 2026.