Perhaps it would have gone better if I had danced. I was at SUNY Potsdam, in northern NY for a summer program teaching high school students from the Akwesasne (Mohawk) tribe.

If you plot the five tribes of the Iroquois, six, when the Tuscarora joined, their territories roughly resemble vertical stripes across NY, with the Mohawks farthest east, extending along the Hudson River, north to Canada. Known for their ferocity in battle, even among the Iroquois, which is saying something, they are also fearless of heights and are known for their iron work shaping the tallest buildings in New York City, including the World Trade Center.

I was on campus to teach US History, which, in retrospect, was cheeky of me. I wasn’t completely naive, but thought that my project-based approach would allow the students to shape NY state curriculum with their own experiences and outlook.

My proposal for such an approach was accepted, and I was invited to participate in what I came to see as an academically light attempt to encourage young people from the reservation to stay in school through high school graduation.

It was not a good fit for me. Most of the teachers were white, but local, while I lived in a dorm. Many were veterans of the program and knew each other and the students. I didn’t know anyone, wasn’t from the area and was an outsider.

My own free-spirited independence worked against me in this setting where social cohesion was so important. And, when I had the chance, having no true understanding of how important it was, finally demurring to my own awkwardness, I didn’t dance.

It was a single stomp social dance, a circular dance accompanied by drummers, where people join in throughout the dance. I actually wanted to join, but couldn’t put aside my acute self-consciousness take the first step.

Things went downhill from there. I don’t know that literally dancing would have made difference, but I think if I’d had the confidence to relax a little, the weeks might have been different.

As it was, my joy in teaching was not met by my student’s delight in learning and they melted away two or three at a time. There was a requirement to finish the session to qualify for the end of summer bash at an amusement park, but no requirement to finish a specific class.

One day I showed up to no students. I went to talk to the program head who was a young Mohawk man in his twenties. I asked if he knew what was going on. He said my students told him I was racist, so he told them that they didn’t need to go to my class anymore.

I think about that summer from time to time, recalling what it was like to be humbled; glad I took the risk of accepting that particular teaching call, and glad, too, that if I had the chance now, I would dance.