When the first drum comes in, it feels like freedom, a door opening to release the song. On cue, a giggling girl bursts through the kitchen door, dragging an old cook by the apron. The drums hammer in counterpoint, and the older woman breaks loose and makes a run for the kitchen. A girl counselor falls out of the line and makes a joyful tackle, just as the drums and the bass shift into a new pattern. The other black people are laughing, but the line holds tight.

“It’s an African thing,” Sara says knowingly. I don’t need her to tell me that. The white people have left the floor.

After making them force her into the line, the old cook slowly straightens her back and removes her apron. The others take a step back, deferring to her as leader. She stands. Listening. Listening to that vamp that seems to have no end. The others stand. Waiting. The guitars come in. Reed-thin, the woman sways. The line sways like grass in a warm summer breeze. The sax comes in, and the voices. The tempo jumps to a higher level. My heart jumps up, but the cook drops down, bending her knees deep. The line follows. She steps. The line steps.

The dance is serious business. Under her black hairnet, the old cook has a serious face. Her spotless white uniform seems to have ritual significance. The dance is cool, languid, almost stately in its dignity. At the same time, it is powerfully alive. It expresses unity, unity of movement, unity of purpose.

Denise prompts Margie through the changes with a big-sisterly grip of the hand. They lean to the right, kick, turn, cross their feet. Then clap! Denise lets go. And Margie claps too. With no prompting, Margie makes another turn, a squat, step forward, step backward, and a twist of the hips. Another clap. Now separated from Denise, Margie becomes connected to the line. The line has become a living thing, a joining of individual bodies into one dancing mass, a kind of joining that does not depend on touch. Dancing in her faded yellow church dress, Margie radiates competence beyond question. Where did she learn to dance like that?

I guess I’m gawking pretty bad because Sara’s looking at me instead of the dancing, and looking at me like I’m a hick. “You never seen stepping? I guess you wouldn’t have.” Her eyes turn back to the dancing, and she’s smiling, without irony, without reservation. “Now, that’s the way it should be. Campers, counselors, and cooks. United.” Then anger sparks. “Why do things get so screwed up?”

There is nothing I can say. The dancing line is beautiful, that’s all.