Plenty of GoodWomen Dancers:african american women hoofers from philadelphiaThis long-awaited documentaryfeatures exceptional local AfricanAmerican women tap dancersNOW AVAILABLE!whose careers spanned the 1920s-1950s. Restricted to few roles,often unnamed and uncredited, these women have a story to tell!Glamorous film clips, photographs, and dancers’ own vivid recollectionsprovide a dynamic portrait of veteran women hoofers prominentduring the golden age of swing and rhythm tap.Plenty was directed by Germaine Ingram, Debora Kodish, and BarryDornfeld, and produced by Debora Kodish and Barry Dornfeld.53 minutes. 2004. DVD. $24.95 individuals, $65 institutions.ISBN 0-9644937-6-4.TO ORDER:____ (number) of Plenty of Good Women Dancers (DVD) @ $24.95=+PASales Tax @ 7%__________________+ Postage/handling ($3 for 1-5 items, $5 for 5-10 items. _________MAILING INFORMATION:Total Due_________Name:_______________________________________________ Phone:_________________Address:_____________________________________________ Email: __________________City:____________________ State:_________ Zip: _________Make checks out to <strong>Philadelphia</strong> <strong>Folklore</strong> <strong>Project</strong>, and mail to PFP, 1304 Wharton St., Phila., PA 19147.Questions? 215.468.7871 or info@folkloreproject.org. THANKS FOR YOUR SUPPORT!order with credit cards atwww.folkloreproject.org
waking up the people/continued from p. 15town itself…and then hearing peoplelike a Amiri Baraka or a JayneCortez, a Sonia Sanchez and alsoseeing and hearing Sun Ra andOrnette Coleman and PharaohSaunders and Sonny Rollins—andonce you started seeing these people,and hearing these people…andall this just kind of came togetherfor me so that I emerged.And the whole thing with mewith storytelling was to not only tobe influenced by my culture butalso to develop my own thing. I’mthe kind of person that I want to beunique, no matter what I do....So even with my storytelling,I’m always looking for ways, exploringit, taking it out, take it in differentdirections, you know, becauseto me storytelling is so powerfuland I think it is so important and socrucial to really get the story out.And I think of storytelling, really, asa force, and I think of it as a survivaltool, and I think that’s how we as apeople survived, and I think that’show people— human beings as aspecies— will continue to survive—if we get the story out. And I thinkwhat’s happening now is really asuppression of the story, of theword, getting out.I was so shocked when I heardthere were other storytellers,because I thought I was so unique!I thought. “Oh boy, I’m the onlystoryteller in the world!” I think thefirst storyteller I started hearingabout was either Brother Blue orMary Carter Smith. They had atremendous influence on me, especiallyBrother Blue, because he wasso different, he was so unique and Iwas influenced by that.Apparently, talking to BrotherBlue and Mother Mary, they kind ofstarted doing their things around’73, too. Something happened, inthe 70s, that led to the storytellingmovement. Now what or why, Ihaven’t been able to figure out.Why people were driven or drawnto this, you know, because peopleleft their jobs, they started saying“this is what I am going to do,” typeof thing.And what was so funny, I was discouraged,too. See, I don’t want youto think that everything was all roses,because it wasn’t. Sometimes peopledidn’t know what I was talking about,what I was going to do.And at the time I was very disappointed.I was very, you know,discouraged, and I think that’s whatkind of reminded me of the storymy grandfather used to tell aboutthe frog who wanted to be a singer,how you had to keep going andthat was a story I was telling to mykids anyway. And that kind of ledme to telling that story in public.They started the SmithsonianFestival of American Folklife andBernice Reagon was at Howard and[my husband] Clay and her wouldtalk and she heard about what I wasdoing and she said, “Well, maybeLinda should be featured.” And Iremember that I had to kind of likecome and audition for her. And Iwas so afraid, so nervous. I couldhardly talk. I was stuttering,because I stutter anyway. I couldhardly move. My feet were sowooden. And I really did a horriblejob. But it was something in me,something she saw. And sheencouraged me, and she said, “Well,you can come and you can tell yourstories.” And I just remember shesaid, “I just hope you”—I remembershe pointed to my feet—“I justhope you move your feet alittle more. “And then in ’75 they had me totell stories. But one year, when Iwas there, they had me to comeout of this shack, which was similarto what was in my home town, andthey even had a garden. And Inever will forget. And I thinkBernice just said this. But theydidn’t have—they didn’t give me amicrophone. Either they couldn’tfind a microphone or they forgotthat I would need one. So Bernicesaid, “Just use your voice. Just useyour voice. Use your voice. They’llcome. They’ll come.” So that’swhen I started doing this cry: “Well,oh well, well!” Before I had neverdone that, to the public. But I wantedpeople to come and hear thestories! And I had all this so-calledcompetition because, you know,people from all over the world werethere, sharing their art, their folklore.And how was people going tocome and look at little old me, youknow?! And I just started going “Well,oh well!” “Story! Story-telling time!”“Well, oh well, well,” that camefrom a little man called Squeal ‘emCarr. Now to this day I do not knowhis real name. Because a lot of peoplein my town have nicknames.Everybody has a nickname. Youknow the Negro Leagues, the baseballteams, would come though thetown and they would play in thisbig field that isn’t there anymore,you know, and whenever there wasa home run, you could hear “Well,oh well, well!” and it just took meout! It was like, “Who is that?! Whois saying that?!” Again, I was curious.I always had the questions.And my mother said, “That’s Squeal‘em Carr,” you know. And my motherwould sing it around the housetoo. In other words, that becamelike something people would sayaround the town, because youthink of Squeal ‘em Carr and thatsaying, you know. And one day, Isaw Squeal ‘em Carr, and he was sotiny. He was a very short man. Andthe whole idea of something thatpowerful, that you could hear allover that field, coming out of hisvoice, you know. So apparently,when Bernice said “You’ve got tocall ‘em,” that is what came outof me.And what happened next, Ibought some bells. These are bellsthat I have been using ever sincethe 70s. I thought that since I amgoing to be at the Smithsonian, andI’m using my voice—I got to dosomething else [to attract people]so I started ringing the bells.And so, once I kind of emergedas a storyteller, and when I told mygrandfather what I was doing, that’swhen he brought this old bugle,this old bugle he had. I’d neverseen it before. And he told me thatwas his job. On the plantation. Hehad worked in this big plantation inAlabama. Now, you know, my grandfather,he always got to tell a story.And again, you didn’t know whatwas true and what wasn’t. But heclaimed that the rooster wouldcrow first, early in the morning. Therooster would crow. And when therooster would crow, this wouldwake up Shep, the dog. Then thedog—now again, the way he wouldtell it, it would sound like the[Continued on page 23➝]21
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