Can a neglected history be reclaimed? And how do dancers step into the spotlight when their predecessors have been overlooked and forgotten?
Diary of a Tap Dancer, a piece written and choreographed by Ayodele Casel and directed by Torya Beard, explores these powerful questions. With scenic design by Tatiana Kahvegian, costume design by Camilla Dey, lighting design by Brandon Stirling Baker, sound design by Sharath Patel, and projection design by Katherine Freer, the production at the American Repertory Theater in Cambridge ran until January 4, 2025.
Before the world paused in 2020, Ayodele Casel delivered a captivating artist’s talk at the Radcliffe Institute. Her feet tapping, her voice resonant with conviction, she spoke of the overlooked Black women in tap from the 1930s to the 1950s. She evoked the chorus line dancers of Harlem’s iconic Apollo Theater, the leading figures of Black vaudeville, and the unsung heroines of Hollywood musical numbers whose brilliance was often excised on the cutting room floor as punishment for outshining their white counterparts. These were Names For A Dancer, names that deserved to be remembered.
The producers at A.R.T. were present at that talk and recognized the significance of Casel’s vision. They commissioned Diary of a Tap Dancer, a comprehensive ensemble piece directed by Casel’s wife, Torya Beard. Given A.R.T.’s history of successful productions, a Broadway transfer seems a likely prospect.
However, the production isn’t quite ready for that level just yet.
Ayodele Casel in *Diary of a Tap Dancer*. Photo: Nile Scott Studios and Maggie Hall
Diary of a Tap Dancer begins with the intimate voice of a schoolgirl in homesick letters written on notebook paper. Ayodele’s personal journey, sent from the Bronx to live with her grandparents in Puerto Rico for what was supposed to be a year but stretched to six, serves as the foundation. Yet, the performance transcends individual experience, delving into broader themes. Diary of a Tap Dancer grapples with fundamental questions: Can a marginalized artistic heritage be reclaimed? And how do dancers, especially those from neglected backgrounds, claim their rightful place in the dance world?
Act One unfolds the narrative of a spirited, biracial child – Casel, nicknamed Muhammed Ali for her propensity for schoolyard skirmishes – and her complex family. Her Puerto Rican mother, who shared the enchantment of Golden Age Hollywood musicals. Her Black Power father, a martial arts expert (perhaps the source of Casel’s remarkable stamina and athleticism), who was absent for 17 years of her life. Her cherished uncle, lost to the grip of addiction. Her reserved grandfather, a sugarcane cutter, and her loving grandmother, who earned meager wages stitching handkerchiefs. The scars of this formative period are subtly suggested, perhaps reflecting Casel’s caution against resorting to stereotypes. Yet, these figures, sketched with broad strokes, sometimes remain as simplified as a child’s understanding.
Following a vibrant segment of old-school South Bronx hip-hop (the dancers in sneakers grounding the piece in urban reality), Casel’s tap choreography, performed by herself and her exceptional ensemble, juxtaposes diverse rhythmic traditions – West African, bomba, plena, swing. The music is driven by the dynamic drumming of Keisel Jimenez Levya, alongside pianist Carlos Cippelletti and bassist Raul Reyes Bueno. Subtle choreographic hints appear: a sand dance evoking her move to a tropical island, and a fleeting reference to a Bill Robinson hornpipe. A significant portion of Act One addresses the repeated dismissal from those who should have recognized and nurtured her talent, including a thinly veiled portrayal of Savion Glover’s NYOT (Not Your Ordinary Tappers), an all-male company. The overarching narrative of this act is the journey of how she evolved into the accomplished artist we witness on stage.
Liberty Styles and Ayodele Casel in *Diary of a Tap Dancer*. Photo: Nile Scott Studios and Maggie Hall
While Casel’s biography provides the factual framework, dance is the true language of her story. Stepping into a tap class as a sophomore at NYU, she discovered an art form capable of channeling and challenging her boundless creativity and energy. Casel injects humor into portraying her initial dance naiveté – her deliberately off-key singing during her first professional audition is genuinely funny. But by Act Two, she and her seven dancers (Naomi Funaki, Afra Hines, Quynn L. Johnson, Funmi Sofola, Liberty Styles, Annaliese Wilbur, and Ki’Leigh Williams) unleash their full virtuosity. Projections of legal documents restricting the lives of enslaved people appear on the backdrop in a somber blue light, casting a shadow of history. The ensemble then explodes into a powerful rhythmic march, a percussive statement of resilience. A subsequent, slightly surreal, segment evokes the visual style of Bob Fosse, reimagined with white top hats instead of bowlers, showcasing a different facet of tap’s versatility.
Casel’s exploration reveals that the distortion of her artistic lineage stems not only from racism but also from a less acknowledged force: misogyny. As she delves into the history of Black women in tap, she confronts the stark reality of how few of them achieved the recognition afforded to their male counterparts. She becomes a dedicated researcher, immersing herself in sources like a Village Voice article by Itabari Njeri, a dissertation by Cheryl Willis, seeking out rare film clips, and posing direct questions to aging (male) tap masters. Ultimately, her quest leads her to Canada, to a meeting with the then 84-year-old Jeni Le Gon, known as “the sepia Cinderella of tap.” Le Gon confessed to Casel her belief that the world had completely forgotten her name and contributions. These were important names for a dancer, names that should have been celebrated.
In this segment of Diary, Casel’s emotion is palpable; it resonates as deeply authentic. She acknowledges and appreciates the efforts of a group of white women in the 1970s and 80s (names deserving mention include Avra Petrides, Marda Kirn, Sali Ann Kriegsman, and Jane Goldberg) who established festivals that brought aging male tap legends like Honi Coles, John Bubbles, and Jimmy Slyde back from obscurity and into the spotlight they deserved. However, with the notable exception of the esteemed Dianne Walker, Black women in tap were conspicuously absent from these celebrations.
The cast of *Diary of a Tap Dancer*. Photo: Nile Scott Studios and Maggie Hall
This is a painful truth to confront. It was an undeniable injustice that demands rectification.
Ayodele Casel’s life’s work, beyond her compelling dancing and choreography, seems dedicated to correcting this historical omission.
She commits to sharing her knowledge.
She vows to speak their names.
In the emotionally charged finale of Diary of a Tap Dancer, Katherine Freer’s projections on the back wall become a powerful memorial. The names of countless women tap dancers, representing diverse backgrounds and identities, are displayed – from those whose legacies survive only in fragments of film to those actively dancing today. These are the names for a dancer, the names of pioneers and innovators.
“Everyone who sees me will see them,” Ayodele Casel proclaims, making a powerful statement about visibility and remembrance.
For those familiar with some of the names on that projected list, the moment is profoundly moving, bringing tears to the eyes as a testament to long-overdue recognition.
