My Philly Tap Dance Chronicles (1992)

By Pamela Hetherington

At some point, a child’s “studio-for-real” often multiplies into a few studios for specialized training. I spent a lot of time on SEPTA as a kid, traveling from Old City to Mayfair to downtown Center City. It was a lot of fun. I felt very much at home, traveling from place to place, peering intently out of bus windows.

In Fall of 1990, after Miss Joan’s studio had closed, I was taking jazz at ‘Joanne’s School of Dance’ with Stephan Love. I was also permitted to take drop-in adult jazz with Megan Doyle at the Jazz Center, even though I was only ten years old. I just gamely joined in with dancers twice or three times my age; it didn’t even phase me.

I also took tap with Delphine Mantz at the University of the Arts’ deep downstairs basement room in 309 South Broad, but when it came to ballet...Well, let’s just say I certainly did not lack in the determination department, but I was born with no turnout, inflexible joints, awkward long arms and torso, and a pathetic inability to balance myself. 

So, when Mr. Stephan kindly said to my mother, “she needs more ballet,” we ended up on two more buses and the El for me to attend the Philadelphia Civic Ballet from 1990-1993, which was owned then by Alicia Craig and her daughter, Carla. Alicia’s co-founder and husband, Norman, had passed on prior to my joining the studio.

Back then, the studio was located on the second, maybe third?, floor of a classic, Philadelphia-style rust brick building, in between 15th and 16th Streets on Sansom. While that part of Center City is glitzy now, in the early 1990s, Sansom Street was gritty, full of trash and shuttered storefronts. Every time I hear the words from A Chorus Line’s “At the Ballet”: Up a steep and very narrow stairway...it could have been written exactly with that studio in mind. It was a ways up. As you climbed the stairs, you’d hear the ballet music getting closer and closer, the sharp corrections from the teacher, the creak of the well-traveled boards near the top, and something would happen to a young dancer’s brain, where they’d leave the real world and enter the world of dance.

My first placement class at the Civic Ballet was a disaster. It was akin to one of those nightmares when you show up for a final exam, an hour late, no pencil or pen and worse, everyone is staring at you while you take the test.

I did not know any of the ballet terms called out, any of the exercises, and any of the foot or arm positions. Mr. Stephan was certainly being nice when he said “more” ballet was what I needed. I needed, first of all, a ballet dictionary. I had taken weekly ballet classes at Miss Joan’s studio, but she just didn’t focus as much attention on it as she did on tap class, and of course, my parents trusted her and/or did not know the difference. Sort of a shame, but frankly, Ms. Joan’s ballet instruction was probably perfectly average and would have been adequate for any other child who was not as determined as I was. I just was moving into circles where it was no longer good enough.

However, one thing I had learned to do quite well at Miss Joan’s was to pick up steps quickly. In my nightmarish moment, even at that young age, I look back with surprise that I didn’t crumble or crack. I mimicked, kept up, and fell into line. These are all dance skills that are sometimes just as important as technique. I suppose I showed promise in the “fake it ‘til you make it” department, because in November of 1991, Miss Alicia invited me to perform a ballet solo as “Pinocchio” during a Philadelphia Civic Ballet company performance at the Free Library of Philadelphia on the Parkway. This was one of my happiest childhood dance memories.

If I had to sum up Stephan’s approach to teaching as intense, Miss Alicia’s teaching approach was intentional. Before speaking, she chose her words meticulously, and she dispensed wisdom in carefully crafted sentences, weighty with meaning. Children would have heard her words on one level, not fully understanding what she was saying between the lines, and I believe that was the point. The lesson was meant to be unpacked over years and years of study, trial and error. This kind of communication style might not have been as impactful if she hadn’t been a statuesque, stunning woman, always dressed to the nines in elegantly tailored clothes. Not unlike some of my later teachers, she inspired children immediately through her first impression.

In the spring of 1991, during our recital dress rehearsal, my ballet group was on the stage at Albert Greenfield Elementary, and we were really screwing up the choreography and formations. We fooled around, ran in circles, holding in our laughter, until we saw Miss Alicia walking down the aisle towards us. Unbeknownst to us, she had been watching in silence from the back of the auditorium. In no rush whatsoever, she clicked her way to the stage in glossy pumps that were just a shade darker than her nylons. Despite it being June, she was resplendent in a navy blue, long-sleeved skirt suit with a Mandarin collar, a long string of pearls, and a floral silk scarf at her neck. 

We knew we were in for it. All we could do now was take our silence.

Drawing a breath, she said, eyes piercing all of us: 

If you want to be a dancer, then: you need to learn how to be a Smart. Dancer.

Now that she had our attention and the auditorium’s dead silence, she continued to expound:

“Being smart means you need to know where to go at all times!

You need to know exactly where your spot is!

You need to be aware of who is around you!

You need to make sure you are where you need to be!”

“Act smart!” 

She knew she didn’t have to say more. She wordlessly showed us a movement example. One of the parts in the dance that we had been missing involved us ballet-running in a circle and landing in a diagonal line, in first arabesque, evenly spaced. She made us rehearse the part several times. Even when we probably did it correctly, she found another small detail to fix.

And then, in silence, we were dismissed.  

Reader, are you still turning over that phrase: “smart dancer?” Truly, so am I. I consider how a child might understand the word “smart,” perhaps simply, as “not intelligent.” However, I believe she knew that there would be children in that recital who might still be turning over that phrase throughout their lives. Children who might grow up to be dancers and dance teachers themselves. That those children would remember her speech word-for-word and make use of them one day. So that, instead of missing a beat or a spot in line, those children would know what to do when:

the people you work with take your ideas and make them their own.

the people in your field fix the landscape, either with money or connections, allowing them an advantage.

the people you trusted sabotage you and your work, either to get ahead or bring you down with them.

These children survive the arts by being smart. By acting smart. By finding a place in the line and knowing the music enough to land on the beat.

Whatever those words mean to you.