I dance with beginners. It's not a routine, not a goal — it's about paying attention. I usually do it because I was once a beginner myself, and I vividly remember the struggles of that initial phase: lingering at the edge of the dance floor, wanting to join in but not knowing how, fearing I'd get in the way. For leaders, the beginning is even more complex — beyond the steps, they carry the responsibility of the invitation (this has fortunately been changing, but for a long time, the invitation was almost exclusively the leader's role), the leading itself, and the embrace.
I remember when I started in 2003, and how difficult it was. Back then, "no" was normalized — most people wouldn't even dance one song with me to help me loosen up. Inviting someone meant preparing for refusal, and learning became a solitary climb.
After a start like that, you might expect me to dance with every beginner who shows up. But that's not the case: I don't always want to. Just as I don't always want to dance with someone I already know and whose dance doesn't flow well with mine. Knowing how to say "no" to what you don't want is a skill, not a flaw. It's the art of not wanting: not doing what you don't want to do, without guilt or justification.
But when I do want to — and I often do — it's one of the most rewarding experiences the dance party has given me. Having the opportunity to help someone at the beginning, to teach a little of what I was taught, is a privilege the dance floor offers for free. And the return comes in the kindest way possible: it's not uncommon for someone to ask me to dance and, mid-song, ask if I remember — because five years ago I helped them with their first steps, on a night that for me was just another one, but for them, it was the beginning. The dance floor has a long memory. And it thanks you by dancing.
And the most beautiful thing is that this memory circulates. One beginner tells another that I dance and help, and sometimes that's how I'm introduced at a forró party. This says less about me than about them: those who are starting out create their own network, they inform each other, they look out for each other. True generosity spreads by word of mouth.
I've also learned that it doesn't take much. Four or five well-timed tips can completely transform someone's dance. It's not a lesson, it's not a correction — it's an adjustment to the embrace here, a tip about weight distribution there, and the person loosens up. Seeing that happen in the middle of a xote is one of the most beautiful things about social dancing.
So, this text isn't against dancing with beginners. It's radically in favor of it. It just isn't in favor of turning it into an obligation.
The misplaced expectation.
There's a criticism circulating at dance parties and on social media, sometimes voiced with a slight accusatory tone: "people here only dance among themselves." Or the direct version: "good dancers should ask beginners to dance." Let me say this clearly: this criticism is wrong and it's heavy-handed. It turns leisure into a duty, casts judgment on other people's nights out, and stems from an unexamined premise — that along with the paid admission comes a social function, and that refusing it, even for one night, is a character flaw.
It's not.
A dance party is leisure. Someone has left work, crossed the city, paid admission, and has the right to spend the night exactly as they wish: dancing only with friends they haven't seen in weeks, only with that perfect partner, or with no one at all — leaning against the bar, listening to the accordion. No one owes anyone a dance. We learned that lesson when it came to refusing an invitation. It applies both ways: the "no" from someone who doesn't want to dance with you, and the "no" from someone who chose not to invite.
And let this be clear, especially for those who have felt pressured: if you don't want to dance with a beginner, don't. Don't feel bad about it. You don't have that obligation. Spending the night dancing with those you chose doesn't make you cliquish or selfish — it makes you someone enjoying their own leisure time. That's exactly what you came for.
Dancing among friends is also protection.
And there's a layer to this conversation that almost no one touches on, but it needs to be said: for many people, dancing only with acquaintances isn't cliquishness. It's safety.
Harassment in forró is still real — I've written about it here on the blog before. And it's not exclusive to the dance floor: it's an old, social problem that appears in so many spaces — from work to the street — and no one is going to solve it alone, overnight. Given this, many people — especially followers — have formed their circle of trust on the dance floor, a legitimate way to protect their bodies. There, dancing means dancing with the knowledge that the embrace will respect boundaries, that "no" won't need to be said twice, that the night will end lightly.
Criticizing these people for "only dancing among themselves" is enormously unfair. It's demanding openness from those who learned, the hard way, that openness comes at a cost. Wanting to dance only with friends is a personal decision — and should by no means be criticized. Those who want a more open dance floor first need to build a safer one. In that order.
But whose responsibility is it?
Here's a simple observation: those who frequent dance parties rarely demand dances from strangers. This pressure almost never originates from the dance floor itself. And, wherever it comes from, it targets the wrong people — because integrating beginners isn't the job of those who paid admission. It's the job of those who organize the space.
If a beginner arrives at a dance party and has no one to dance with, the problem isn't the experienced couple who preferred to dance together all night. The problem is that no one built a bridge for that beginner — and building bridges is a structural responsibility, belonging to those who make the party happen.
Open class before the party. Beginner circle with a teacher present. Identified monitors during the first hours of the night. A space where beginners dance with other beginners, make mistakes together, laugh together, evolve at their own pace. None of this is new — and where it exists, it works. Where it doesn't, the welcoming aspect ends up being pushed onto the attendees, as if being hospitable were an obligation for those who came to have fun.
That's how it was for me, by the way. I resolved my issues on the dance floor by making friends and taking private lessons. Getting closer to specific forró groups created a bond that made me evolve much faster — not through the charity of strangers, but through shared experience. What integrates a beginner is connection and structure, not an obligation distributed across the dance floor.
And there's no need to ask a beginner what they want: they want to dance. What's missing has never been their desire — it's the bridge connecting that desire to the dance floor.
What I advocate for, ultimately.
I advocate for generosity on the dance floor to be cultivated — not demanded. They are different things. To cultivate is to set an example, to share how good it feels, to create the conditions for it to happen. To demand is to police other people's nights and distribute judgment.
And if anyone doubts that cultivation works, just look back. That beginning I described — the easy refusal, the closed-off dance floor of 2003 — is no longer the norm. Today's forró is much more welcoming than it was twenty years ago. And no one decreed this change. It was cultivated, party by party, by people who invited others because they wanted to. That's how a dance floor changes: by example, not by demand.
Those who invite beginners gain a lot from it. I still do today: every person who asks me to dance and remembers a helping hand from years ago proves to me that four or five tips, given willingly, plant something that lasts. I recommend the experience to anyone. But I recommend it like someone suggesting an album, not like someone collecting a debt.
If you want to try it, the dance floor thanks you. If you prefer to spend the night with your friends — out of preference, for a reunion, or for protection — the dance floor is still yours too.
Because forró thrives precisely on this: different desires sharing the same music. The day dancing becomes a chore, it ceases to be what we came for. Invite because you want to. That's the only invitation that truly counts.
For those just starting out: the good news.
Lately, I've been dancing with people who arrived at the party with dance school groups and who, little by little, started stepping out of their own group and allowing themselves to dance with outsiders. They were dancing wonderfully well. Today's schools are doing a great job with this integration — taking students from the classroom to the dance floor, and from the dance floor to the entire hall. It's one of the best solutions forró has found, and it works. And notice: no one was forced into anything. The person was invited, felt safe, and one day crossed over on their own. That's always how it happens.
If you're just starting out, check out the forró classes section here on the website and give it a try. Ask each school how they handle this transition from the classroom to the dance floor — that care says a lot. And persist: not in a specific dance, but in your presence. Come back. Every environment is made of people and moments, and not every night will be yours. If the dance floor feels tough one day, listen to the band. Talk to the person next to you. The next song might change everything.
Forró has brought me spectacular friends. It will bring them to you too.