My Philly Tap Dance Chronicles (1990-1991)

By Pamela Hetherington

June 12, 2023

In 1990, I was ten years old, and a couple of the kids from my Police Athletic League talent troupe started to attend a popular children’s jazz class at Joanne's Dance Studio, which was then located in South Philadelphia at the intersection of Broad and Porter, above Bambi Cleaners. Since those parents spoke so highly of the teacher, I found myself at Joanne’s Dance Studio, too. Unusual for the time, this class was not your typical enrollment-based class that would end in a recital. It was an opportunity for children to train at a high level and possibly be invited to perform in a Philadelphia youth dance ensemble called the Next Generation Dance Theater. Also unusual: Joanne wasn't the teacher of this class - it was a man by the name of Stephan Love. 

Stephan was the first real Artist I ever encountered. In contrast to Miss Joan’s superintendent approach to dance, when Stephan entered a room, everything about it changed. His mood on any particular day was thrown at you like a fastball, and you better catch it. As such, he trained you to anticipate his class. You stretched beforehand, you sprayed your hair back, and you were waiting by the door ten minutes before it started. You wanted to be great, and you wanted to do your best, because hewanted you to be great. I learned this first, most important lesson about how to teach kids, by being his student.

A dancer, a teacher, a choreographer, a visionary, an inspirer, he was a real force in the Philadelphia dance scene in the 1980s and 1990s. At that time, he didn’t operate out of one physical space, but it didn’t seem to matter. He had a movement and a following and many people with studios who believed in him. His jazz class was offered at Joanne’s, and his organized tap class happened there, too, and an ensemble ballet class was offered by Alicia Craig at the Philadelphia Civic Ballet. 

At ten years old, gawky and lacking technique, I was hardly considered close to being a member of Stephan’s youth company. These kids in Stephan's class were simply amazing; possessing poise, personality, the cool dance clothes I pined for and extensions for days! I was younger than most of them by about 5 years, and with my combination of glasses, braces and frizzy hair, I stuck out like a sore thumb. Somehow, though, maybe because I showed promise or maybe because I just kept showing up, I ended up training with that group of kids from Spring of 1990 to December of 1991. I also studied with the other teachers that Stephan brought into his fold, which included modern dance superstar Bernard Gaddis, the legendary Maurice Hines, and in tap, the best of everything: Leon Evans and Delphine Mantz. 

In early 1991, Stephan opened his own studio space called the Next Step. It was located in a storefront on 2nd St nearest the intersection of Arch. The building is still there, and if you walk by today, it is hard to fathom how it was ever turned into a dance studio. It is a fairly tight, narrow, one room space, with a foyer and because of its tiny size, a downstairs area for waiting. Stephan also lived in the downstairs area.

It was pre-gentrified Olde City! (The “e” still existed back then). It was live there, it was hip, it was underground, it had an energy about it, and it was not the affluent enclave it is now. Artists are really good at finding those affordable nooks and crannies to make their work happen. Because, it has to happen. Once Stephan opened his school, I was there every Saturday from 9 am to 5 pm. Most of the kids at his studio danced all day long, no questions asked. 

When I entered into this orbit of people at the age of ten, I was the youngest one, and again, behind. Even so, nobody babied me. My early teachers were similar in that they did not hide the reality of hard work from you, even when you were young. It is within these environments that you see how far you have to go, and it gives you a sense of the magnitude of the goal. Stephan, and everyone he brought into his studio, were very clear about teaching us how hard the journey would be. Dance is a lifestyle. It's all-consuming. It's addictive. It decides why you do the things that you do during the day. It's personal and complicated and sometimes you hate it. It's punishing, difficult, and disappointing. Sometimes you love it. It's the medium for how you express who you are. It's nothing if not dramatic. 

To that point, a tenet of dance instruction that has also fallen by the wayside in today’s web of ‘adjudicated’ competitions and pay-to-play opportunities is that performing was a privilege.

Let me say that again. Performing a teacher’s work on stage is a privilege bestowed upon the student. It is not an entitled reward for coming to class. It’s not a guaranteed thing, even if you practice, know the dance, and come to every rehearsal. Athletes know this. They can come to all of the practices and still “ride the bench,” as my ex-football playing husband says.

Case in point: in the summer of 1991, Leon Evans was teaching the teens a routine to Janet Jackson's "Rhythm Nation," which they went on to perform at the Apollo Theater Amateur Night. The steps and the style were all very new to me, but I tuned my ears and got the routine. I was always so determined. I may have done the routine one hundred times one day, sweating through my shirt, hoping for a chance to be recognized.

Those times in the studio remain one of my favorite childhood dance memories. I am pretty sure my feet nowhere near matched my determination, but Leon allowed me to tap dance with the teenagers and get the same kind of corrections they were getting. But, while I might have learned the routine and been able to execute it right along with them, I didn't go to the Apollo, because I was not invited. And, it probably would have been years before I was allowed that kind of opportunity. It was an honor JUST to learn the dance. It was an honor just to be invited into the studio to learn. 

People remind me, “Pam, that was a long time ago,” and yes, I know, society and the pace of achievement has changed such that it seems everything anyone does from birth forward needs to have an associated high ROI percentage for the time and money spent.

What needs to be said much more often in dance pedagogy is:

The rewards in dance rarely happen on stage. Sometimes, they do. But I will say, I have done hundreds and hundreds of shows in my life to this point, and what do I remember, 30 years later? Being in that hot classroom in the dead of July 1991, the way my brain had to work so hard to keep up, the thrill of moving to music, the joy of getting a really hard step after hours of practice. That’s the stuff right there.

***

Encounters with great people often lead to more encounters of similar magnitude. In the summer of 1991, Maurice Hines came to Stephan’s studio for a master class, because he was hooked in with Mr. Leon and Miss Delphine for his show, “Uptown: It’s Hot!” It was a highly anticipated event, and the studio was packed with people, mostly teens and adults. Space was super tight, and true to my form, I did not dare to take a spot in the front, so I tried to keep up, from my spot way in the back. Maurice gave out a quick jazz combination,  boom-boom-boom, and then expected us to do it right away in small groups. My permed and hair-sprayed bangs were sweat-plastered to my forehead. 

I had learned something from Mr. Stephan and everyone in Next Generation: if you don’t know the combination, or you screw up even one step in it, then keep doing it in every group until you get it. So, that’s what I did. If there were five groups that day, I was dancing in every one of them, (in the back line). All of a sudden, I hear this booming voice from Mr. Hines. 

"Baltimore!" 

(Important note for this scene: I'm wearing a pink t-shirt from a trip my family took to Baltimore).

He says it again. 

“Baltimore!” 

Is he talking to me?

Like a scene out of my own personal horror movie for the avoidant pre-teen, time slows down, everyone turns around, looks me up and down, and then looks back at Maurice Hines, in dead silence. No longer a shadow, I touch the hem of my shirt and consider how I might take it off casually and not be “Baltimore” anymore, although my awkward self did nothing casually. 

He says it again:

"Baltimore! Come up here."

With my stomach hitting the floor and humiliated tears filling my eyes, I moved towards the front. But then, as I approach him, he pulls me into a side hug. What?

"Baltimore, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

I am speechless. 

Maurice Hines, always the performer, saves my line.

"Well, let me tell you.” 

“You're either going to be a dancer or the President of the United States, with that kind of determination! Keep going."

Everyone had a good laugh, he pats me on the back, and I run to the back of the room, in shock.

Whew. He didn't talk about my shirt. The moment was over.

Did that just happen? He thinks I could be the President? 

I encountered Maurice Hines a few times after that. One time, I got up the courage to recount the story to him, in the thirty seconds of face time I could grab, and while he didn't remember me, he did light up when I told him the story. He remembered it as something he might have said to an eager, graceless child, who had so much passion spilling out of their tiny body, that I could be anything I wanted to be...even a tap dancer.