Ma and Pa kissed baby,
Then they tucked him into bed
With dreams of polka parties
Still a-dancing in his head.
from Baby Danced the Polka
written by Karen Beaumont
pictures by Jennifer Plecas
Dial Books for Young Readers, 2004
accessed on YouTube 1/26/25
Last week, my husband and I went to our favorite Mexican restaurant for lunch and, not for the first time, I commented on how much Mariachi music (playing in the background) reminds me of the polkas that my parents loved so much.
Maybe it was just the accordion and the upbeat tempo, but I kept wondering if I was the only one who noticed the similarities. And I found out that, no, lots of people have wondered and have written about it, too.
Somewhat tangentially, my older daughter’s favorite color is polka dot. She loves them. All colors and all sizes. I wondered why, but really, what makes a color or a number or a shape anyone’s favorite anything? That will have to be a whole different rabbit hole, I mean blog topic.
And here’s another surprise (for me anyway). Polka dots are connected to the music.
Toward the middle of the 1800s, so the story goes, a music teacher, Josef Neruda, noticed a young Bohemian woman, Anna Slezáková, dancing to a local folk song. Her dance was so lively and spry that Neruda wrote down the steps and taught others how to do it.
At the same time, in the same place (Bohemia is now a part of the Czech Republic), a new fashion trend came onto the scene. It was a revival of a much-maligned pattern of the Middle Ages. Then, dots were hand-drawn on fabric and necessarily unevenly spaced. Because they reminded people of the pox rashes that were so deadly, the pattern fell out of favor quickly.
But, thanks to the Industrial Revolution (~1760 to ~1840), machines could weave polka dots into fabric evenly spaced, and so, they gained back their popularity.
Historians tell us the word polka, whether the dots or the dance, comes from the steps of the dance itself. It’s a quicker version of the ever-popular waltz and refers to the half-step taken between the two longer steps when performing the dance.
Coincidentally, the dance craze was coming into its own at the same time. So the dots were labeled “polka dots,” presumably to take advantage of the marketing potential. Yes, even then.
The craze caught on quickly, spread in part by the Romantic Period, which elevated common folk and emphasized the peasant culture as an ideal. The polka was danced in the ballrooms of Prague, Vienna, and Paris. Soon it was all the rage in London, too, and swam across the pond to our own receptive shores.
But lest we be Americo-centric, lots of immigrants landed on Mexico’s shores, too. And they brought their music with them.
Before the 1820s, only about 50 Germans had found their way to Mexico, but by 1939, the German population in Mexico had grown to 3,000 people. One of the first, Karl Sartorius, was a political refugee from Prussia. When he was able to buy a tract of land, he started what became a very successful sugar cane and coffee plantation. (Slavery, while flourishing in the United States, was barely known in Mexico.)
The increasing demand for coffee brought other immigrants to Mexico, too.
Many Germans fled poverty and Hitler’s persecution. Mexicans called them “trade conquistadors.” They wanted to get rich quick. Textiles, hats, and furniture were some of the German items now manufactured in Mexican factories.
Here’s what else I found out from an interview that Renee Montagne of NPR conducted with Felix Contreras, host of NPR’s podcast Alt.Latino.
Most of the Germans who came to Mexico settled in northern Mexico and southern Texas (still part of Mexico at that time). They brought beer, of course, but they also brought their accordions.
And their music.
But even though the music mashed-up, the people, by their own choice, stayed apart. Mexican folk musician Narciso Martinez (1911-1992), is considered the “father of conjunto music,” a lively, Mexican style of accordion playing. He says when he was young, he and his friend would sneak into the German quarter to listen to the bands. When they got home, his buddy would whistle them to Martinez. Then, Martinez picked the notes out on his accordion, plucking out the bottom tuba notes and the higher sounds of trumpets.
He quickened the tempo from the 3/4 time of a waltz to a common 2/4, and the polka was born.
Voilá! (Oops, that’s French.)
I'm finishing up Steve Inskeep's Differ We Must (Penguin Press, 2023). It's an interesting study of how the people in Lincoln's life helped him shape his politics and Presidency. It's an interesting read. Recommended
Be curious! (and dance)
Then they tucked him into bed
With dreams of polka parties
Still a-dancing in his head.
from Baby Danced the Polka
written by Karen Beaumont
pictures by Jennifer Plecas
Dial Books for Young Readers, 2004
accessed on YouTube 1/26/25
Last week, my husband and I went to our favorite Mexican restaurant for lunch and, not for the first time, I commented on how much Mariachi music (playing in the background) reminds me of the polkas that my parents loved so much.
Maybe it was just the accordion and the upbeat tempo, but I kept wondering if I was the only one who noticed the similarities. And I found out that, no, lots of people have wondered and have written about it, too.
Somewhat tangentially, my older daughter’s favorite color is polka dot. She loves them. All colors and all sizes. I wondered why, but really, what makes a color or a number or a shape anyone’s favorite anything? That will have to be a whole different rabbit hole, I mean blog topic.
And here’s another surprise (for me anyway). Polka dots are connected to the music.
Toward the middle of the 1800s, so the story goes, a music teacher, Josef Neruda, noticed a young Bohemian woman, Anna Slezáková, dancing to a local folk song. Her dance was so lively and spry that Neruda wrote down the steps and taught others how to do it.
At the same time, in the same place (Bohemia is now a part of the Czech Republic), a new fashion trend came onto the scene. It was a revival of a much-maligned pattern of the Middle Ages. Then, dots were hand-drawn on fabric and necessarily unevenly spaced. Because they reminded people of the pox rashes that were so deadly, the pattern fell out of favor quickly.
But, thanks to the Industrial Revolution (~1760 to ~1840), machines could weave polka dots into fabric evenly spaced, and so, they gained back their popularity.
Historians tell us the word polka, whether the dots or the dance, comes from the steps of the dance itself. It’s a quicker version of the ever-popular waltz and refers to the half-step taken between the two longer steps when performing the dance.
Coincidentally, the dance craze was coming into its own at the same time. So the dots were labeled “polka dots,” presumably to take advantage of the marketing potential. Yes, even then.
The craze caught on quickly, spread in part by the Romantic Period, which elevated common folk and emphasized the peasant culture as an ideal. The polka was danced in the ballrooms of Prague, Vienna, and Paris. Soon it was all the rage in London, too, and swam across the pond to our own receptive shores.
But lest we be Americo-centric, lots of immigrants landed on Mexico’s shores, too. And they brought their music with them.
Before the 1820s, only about 50 Germans had found their way to Mexico, but by 1939, the German population in Mexico had grown to 3,000 people. One of the first, Karl Sartorius, was a political refugee from Prussia. When he was able to buy a tract of land, he started what became a very successful sugar cane and coffee plantation. (Slavery, while flourishing in the United States, was barely known in Mexico.)
The increasing demand for coffee brought other immigrants to Mexico, too.
Many Germans fled poverty and Hitler’s persecution. Mexicans called them “trade conquistadors.” They wanted to get rich quick. Textiles, hats, and furniture were some of the German items now manufactured in Mexican factories.
Here’s what else I found out from an interview that Renee Montagne of NPR conducted with Felix Contreras, host of NPR’s podcast Alt.Latino.
Most of the Germans who came to Mexico settled in northern Mexico and southern Texas (still part of Mexico at that time). They brought beer, of course, but they also brought their accordions.
And their music.
But even though the music mashed-up, the people, by their own choice, stayed apart. Mexican folk musician Narciso Martinez (1911-1992), is considered the “father of conjunto music,” a lively, Mexican style of accordion playing. He says when he was young, he and his friend would sneak into the German quarter to listen to the bands. When they got home, his buddy would whistle them to Martinez. Then, Martinez picked the notes out on his accordion, plucking out the bottom tuba notes and the higher sounds of trumpets.
He quickened the tempo from the 3/4 time of a waltz to a common 2/4, and the polka was born.
Voilá! (Oops, that’s French.)
I'm finishing up Steve Inskeep's Differ We Must (Penguin Press, 2023). It's an interesting study of how the people in Lincoln's life helped him shape his politics and Presidency. It's an interesting read. Recommended
Be curious! (and dance)
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