I haven’t yet gotten into céilí and set dancing in these posts, even though it has been a big part of my life as an Irish dancer. I started dancing at my local CCÉ branch’s céilithe* back in the 90s, when my mom randomly took my brother and me one weekend. I was immediately hooked, and I still thank her for making that decision. I organized and called monthly céilithe when I was in college, and have come back to calling regularly over the past five years or so, which has prompted me to deepen my understanding of the beautiful structures embedded in our céilí and set dances. But I’ve only more recently come to appreciate how much my céilí experience has shaped my perspective on Irish dance as a whole.
My experience with céilí dancing as a step dancer used to be the norm, but now it feels unique. We can no longer take for granted that an Irish step dancer will have any céilí experience, besides the team dances they train for competitions and the céilí dances they prepare for grade exams. I would describe these as quite sterile—bodies become uniform and characterless, like faceless stick figures following the exact path they were programmed for. There is a value in this kind of training, sure, but it’s not the social dancing I grew up doing.
A couple of years ago, when I was calling one of our local céilithe, I saw some young, championship-level dancers standing on the sidelines. When I encouraged them to join us, knowing they had the chops to skip 23 around with us, they giggled and, before running off, responded, “No, we don’t do céilí dancing!” I was shocked and thought, what Irish dancer doesn’t do céilí dancing? That’s when I realized that the social aspect of this form of Irish dance isn’t necessarily something that young dancers are exposed to anymore, and, in fact, they see it as something entirely separate.
When I was a kid, I fell in love with the spinning and the chaotic feel of trying to keep up, looking up at all the adults around me, and listening intently to the caller (I was lucky to learn from the inimitable Marilyn Moore). I got better every month, as I started to understand the logic of the dances. I became addicted to the feeling of accomplishment when I made it through a round without messing up. Every month, I brought a different friend from school because I wanted to share this joy with everyone I knew (only a select few returned more than once, haha!). It was only a few months into my céilí dancing journey that some of the organizers noticed how much I loved it and suggested to my mom that I start step dancing lessons with Laureen O’Neill-James, who taught at our local Knights of Columbus. But even after I started step dancing, I continued going to the monthly céilithe because I loved how it made me feel—the breathlessness, the endorphin high, the cramping calf muscles afterwards. And, of course, the social aspect. And the snacks! Still, I never saw it as a separate activity from my step dance training. Each fed into the other.
One thing I was always vaguely aware of was this other side of céilí dancing—the set dances. The céilithe I went to usually started with céilí favorites like the Siege of Ennis, Walls of Limerick, the Fairy Reel, the Bonfire, etc. (all progressive line or circle dances), but the second half of the night was all country set dances. As a child, I was discouraged from participating in these. I was told they were too complicated and that I would mess them up, so the regulars would grab my mom, and I would go run around the hallways with my friends. I was happy to do so, but now I wonder what would have happened if I’d been encouraged to stay. Even as I got older and taller, I wasn’t really invited to participate in these, and they felt off-limits.
It wasn’t until much later, in my late 20s, living in Ireland, that I started to venture into the set dancing world. I remember seeing a video of myself dancing the North Kerry Set with some other dancers and noticing how much my ponytail was bouncing up and down, whereas everyone else was smooth and gliding across the floor. I stuck out like a sore thumb. This was around the time that I started to hear comments from set dancers about step dancers—we are too bouncy, we dance up more than down, we don’t know how to tone it down. It wasn’t just benign comments, either, but it was accusatory, as though we were doing it on purpose. I remember feeling deeply embarrassed but also unsure how to adapt. I wanted to dance in the correct style, but I felt so repressed. As I mentioned, for me, céilí dancing was always about the endorphin high, letting the energy of the music carry me around the floor! I felt some pleasure from the smooth gliding, but it just wasn’t the same as the bounce I had come to crave.
I have since, I think, learned to tone it down, and I have a full appreciation for the set dance styles (of which there are multiple regional styles, I know). But I am concerned about the apparent bias against step dancers, who are already being discouraged from céilí dancing in their dance schools. I am assuming that the lack of attention to céilí dancing mostly has to do with time constraints on already overworked children who are training for competition, and not a lack of appreciation for céilí dancing per se, but I see this as a major loss. Being able to dance purely for fun and *also* to be able to adapt our dancing style in a new context are important skills that support longevity in Irish dance—not just physical longevity, but also staying emotionally motivated to remain involved in Irish dance for a lifetime. I feel that my teachers gave me this perspective, but dancers today seem to believe they have to quit when they retire from competition, as though that’s the only thing that Irish dance has to offer.
That said, I have also had several conversations lately with friends in the céilí dance community about the issue of people dictating what dancing styles should or should not be encouraged in set dancing. It sometimes seems like more than just an aesthetic or regional preference, and more like an effort to control who can participate. Some of us like to hop a little (says my bouncing ponytail!), and honestly, sometimes the music is so good that I feel it would be a shame to suppress how it makes me feel. I can tone it down, sure, but what about those moments when I just want to be myself? Is that inappropriate? Sometimes I want to shout, “Don’t dim my light! I’ll bounce if I want to!”
I am being somewhat facetious because I am a strong proponent of reading the room and dancing in the appropriate style, but I also wonder where this need to control the room comes from. As we know, Irish dance has long been about control and hyperdiscipline, so, so what if we stray from the rules or the norms a little bit? Is that an offense to the culture, or are we finally letting ourselves feel?
This is the line that I’m interested in balancing. As a traditionalist (mostly), I want to engage in the deep study of traditional Irish dance and all its styles, and I want to be able to respectfully navigate different spaces and communities. But there is also something deeper—that instinctual feeling that a great set of tunes inspires in me and the desire to share that with my friends. Sometimes the feeling is so strong that it brings me tears of joy and nostalgia, and the only way I know to respond to it is to brush away the tears and hop it out on the dance floor!
What about you? Are you a hopper or a glider? How does the music make you feel, and do you know how to express that feeling?
* Céilithe is the plural of céilí in Irish.
