Not long after I moved to Milwaukee, I was invited to a wedding. Because I knew almost no one in town then, I seized on this social event and went, Wisconsin-winter style, wearing a long velvet dress, scarf and thick boots.
The wedding was as lovely as a postcard, with thick snow falling on evergreen boughs and red and gold ribbons lining the walk to the church. The reception followed in a nearby hotel – complimentary martinis, an understated disc jockey, a friendly crowd. I congratulated myself for seemingly assimilating to the local ways.
Then came the Chicken Dance.
On the floor was what looked like a lot of very drunk people flapping their arms in imitation of poultry. To me, raised alongside Philadelphia Quakers, it seemed, well, silly.
Being new to the community, I had no way of knowing the Chicken Dance is a very Milwaukee kind of thing. I later did some research and found the dance came from an “oompah” song of 1950s Switzerland that became a standard at German Octoberfests. But it was popularized in America by a Milwaukee polka musician, the late Bob Kames. He and his “Fowl Four” had a 1982 hit, “Dance Little Bird,” that soon became known as the Chicken Dance. In recent years, Polish Fest has featured what it bills as “Wisconsin’s Largest Chicken Dance.”
“You only have to do it once,” said an acquaintance, Ted, noticing me shrinking from the dance floor. “Then you can say you’ve done it, and you’ll never have to do it again.”
“I notice you’re not out there,” I retorted as a group of middle-aged matrons shook their tail feathers out of time with the music.
“Of course not,” he said, rolling his eyes at the very thought of it. “But that doesn’t get you out of it.”
Over the next several months, I settled into our new life and grew to understand the local flora and fauna. I taught programs on the Wisconsin prairie as a naturalist for Waukesha County. I began to “eat local” whenever possible. My husband and I bought a house on the Southeast Side and painted it raspberry red. We tore up the front grass and planted bloodroot, asters and wild false indigo. We traveled to China and brought home an adopted daughter. I met other naturalists and adoptive parents, and my social life began to expand.
One evening, I went with friends to Shank Hall to hear the Riverwest Accordion Club, which rocks polkas like nobody else. Naturally, there was an encore. The room was giddy with slightly tipsy Chicken Dancers. How could I not have seen it coming?
“You only have to do it once,” Ted said. But I couldn’t.
Last spring, my husband was out of town for a conference. It was still cold out, and I had been cooped up indoors with a stir-crazy, almost-4-year-old girl. My friend Russ, father to Lyra (also from China), understood. “Let’s do Friday night fish fry,” he suggested. His wife was due back from Germany later that afternoon and would join us.
We packed up the girls and went to the wonderful Lakefront Brewery. We had plates of deep-fried perch, potato pancakes and applesauce, with Lakefront beer to wash it down. Then the polka band arrived. And because this is Milwaukee, I couldn’t help thinking, the dance floor was packed from the very first oom-pah.
I took my daughter Anya out for a twirl, and Lyra soon joined us. The two girls danced together and quickly found a cute little blond boy whom they graciously allowed in their circle. The boy’s grandfather sought me out, and I learned the child was a recent immigrant from Russia.
Adoptive families can find each other just about anywhere, even in the midst of a crowded polka. Russ joined us, and the three of us chatted about Milwaukee’s surprisingly diverse international adoption community. It’s an undiscovered town, we agreed, and a great place to live.
And then those familiar accordion strains began. Da-da dee-dee-dee-dee-da. The crowd went nuts. The girls grabbed my hands, and I gave in without a thought. We flapped our arms; we shook our tails; we danced in circles like pecking poultry. I’m doing it, I laughed, I’m dancing that silly dance.
Then we returned to our table and I was quietly aware that something was different. After five years living here, I was no longer an outsider. I was a Milwaukeean. All it had taken was a home and a family; a handful of friends; an accordion band – and just maybe, a willingness to finally embrace the chicken in me.
Flashback 25 Years
In our June 1983 issue, writer Perry Lamek described the scene at a classic polka palace at 546 W. College Ave.: “Hundreds of senior citizens have begun to flail their arms like a flock of wild fowl. … A craze they call the Birdy Dance … has effectively transformed The Blue Canary into a geriatric version of American Bandstand.” By the late 1990s, new owners ended the polka nights and tried, briefly, to turn the bar into a strip club.
