If you mention square dancing to most people under 40, you'll get one of two reactions: either a blank stare or a chuckle. But spend a Saturday night at the McRoberts City Civic Center during their monthly open dance, and you'll see something that might change your mind. The room fills with beginners and old-timers alike, swinging and spinning under the warm glow of vintage disco balls, laughing when they mess up a call, cheering when someone nails a particularly tricky sequence. It's one of the most joyful things I've witnessed in any dance scene, and I've been writing about dance for over a decade.
McRoberts City has quietly become one of the Southeast's most underrated square dance destinations, and the schools here are a big reason why. This isn't your grandfather's dusty community center square dance — it's evolved into something genuinely exciting, with instructors who are part coach, part comedian, and entirely dedicated to keeping this American art form alive and kicking.
Why McRoberts City Specifically?
Let me be honest: I didn't plan to fall down the square dance rabbit hole. I was originally researching Appalachian folk dance traditions for a completely different article when I stumbled into a beginner class at Riverside Dance Studio on a Tuesday evening. Within twenty minutes, I was sweating through my shirt, completely lost, and grinning like an idiot. The instructor, a retired schoolteacher named Gloria Hensley who'd been calling dances for thirty-seven years, had the room wrapped around her finger. When she shouted " Promenade, don't go to the store!" at a bewildered tourist couple who'd wandered in off the street, the whole room erupted. That couple stayed for three hours.
The dance schools in McRoberts City share a particular energy that I've only seen in a handful of other places — a genuine commitment to welcoming absolute beginners without any trace of snobbery or gatekeeping. This matters more than it might seem. Square dancing has an image problem, and a lot of that stems from experiences where newcomers felt judged for not knowing a swing from a do-si-do on their first try. That doesn't happen here. The culture deliberately rejects it.
What Actually Happens in a Class
I spent a few months attending different classes across the city's three main schools to understand what makes each one distinctive. Here's what I found, without turning this into a bullet-point list (because honestly, who wants to read that?).
At Riverside Dance Studio, Gloria's beginner sessions start with something she calls "warm-up walks" — no music, just everyone walking around the room while she calls simple movements. Right-left-forward-back. A dosido. Gradually, she introduces a basic singing call, something with a repeating phrase that everyone can learn in about fifteen minutes. By the end of the first class, you're doing a simplified version of a full square dance pattern. It sounds impossible, but Gloria's teaching method makes it feel natural. She explains that square dancing works like a language — you learn vocabulary (individual moves) before you learn grammar (how they combine), and the best instructors know how to build that foundation without overwhelming you.
Maple Street Swing Club, meanwhile, takes a more athletic approach. Their intermediate classes are faster-paced, with an emphasis on execution speed and precision. Head instructor Marcus Webb spent ten years competing on the exhibition circuit, and it shows in the way he breaks down the mechanics of a spin or the proper frame during a promenade. His classes attract people who want to push themselves — the ones who stay late to practice that one call they keep botching, who ask for extra drills on tricky transitions. Marcus told me something that stuck with me: "Square dancing looks simple from the outside, but once you start learning the language, you realize how deep it goes. People who've been dancing for twenty years are still discovering new patterns."
Then there's The Barn, a converted agricultural building about fifteen minutes outside the city proper that hosts the most eclectic mix of dancers I've ever seen. Friday nights at The Barn blend traditional square dance with modern Western style, and the caller — a young woman named Danielle Park who learned to call from her grandmother — brings a playfulness that appeals to a younger crowd. Danielle's sets often incorporate contemporary music alongside classic square dance tunes, and she has a gift for reading the room. When energy dips, she switches to a familiar call that gets everyone moving again. The Barn is where I met a twenty-six-year-old software developer who started attending after seeing a video of a square dance flash mob online, and a retired couple who'd been dancing together for forty-five years and still found new moves to learn.
The Community Is the Point
Here's the thing that surprised me most about square dancing in McRoberts City: the dancing is almost secondary to the community that forms around it. Yes, the classes teach you to dance — but the real value, according to nearly everyone I spoke with, is the network of people you become part of.
Every school hosts regular social dances, and they're open to all skill levels. These aren't performances or showcases; they're gatherings where people catch up, where new students are integrated into the community, where the sense of belonging deepens over time. I watched a retired firefighter teach a college student his favorite do-si-do variation during a break at a Riverside social. I saw Marcus Webb from Maple Street stay an extra hour after class just to help a nervous beginner feel less intimidated. I heard Danielle Park tell a struggling student that everyone in the room was once exactly where they were standing.
This community aspect matters because square dancing is fundamentally collaborative. You can't do it alone — you need four people minimum for a proper square, and the joy of the dance comes from the interplay between partners, the shared challenge of following a call, the collective triumph when a complex sequence lands perfectly. That interdependence creates bonds that solo activities like gym memberships or online courses simply can't replicate.
Making the Leap
If you're reading this and thinking "okay, but could I actually do this," the answer is yes. I've watched complete novices with two left feet transform into competent dancers over the course of a single semester. I've seen people show up terrified of looking foolish and leave three hours later with a dozen new friends and a newfound love for an art form they thought was extinct.
The schools I've described are welcoming to beginners at any age. You don't need special shoes (though leather-soled oxfords help), you don't need a partner, and you absolutely don't need any prior dance experience. What you need is a willingness to look a little silly for a few minutes until the movements start to feel natural. And in McRoberts City, you'll have a whole community of people rooting for you the entire time.
I'd tell you more, but I'm meeting Gloria at Riverside in twenty minutes for an intermediate drill session. She texted me this morning: "You're still dropping your right shoulder on the swing. Come fix it." She's right. I'll see you out there.
