This year, for the 100th anniversary of Black History Month in the U.S., I knew I wanted to write about tap dance. A style that is uniquely American and uniquely Black, originating out of America’s dark history of trafficking and enslaving Africans, as the enslaved used body percussion to create and communicate after laws restricted their access to musical instruments.
With a legacy that transcends some of history’s greatest milestones and intersects with some of the most influential artists in popular music, I had my pick of starting points and I cycled through many of them in my head.
I thought about opening with the fact that tap dance is one of the most historically Black and American dance styles there is.
I considered kicking off with an argument about how tap is unfairly derided and dismissed in conversations about dance, leading to it being misunderstood as a “dying art form.”
I started and restarted this blog post in my mind countless times, but I never began with the most obvious point of origin: myself and my own complex relationship with The Dance.
At seven years old, I made an unusual request of my parents. I decided I wanted to take “just tap” after spending my obligatory first two years of dance lessons in combination ballet/tap classes. After that year, my parents informed me that I was free to take any dance classes I pleased, but I had to stay in tap. It became my foundation and set me apart from my peers, who mainly specialized in contemporary and jazz.
And people — from fellow students to teachers — noticed my affinity for tap dance, but their appreciation of me finding my niche often fell out of step with their broader treatment of tap.
To my face, my teachers praised my musicality and told me I could someday be a Rockette (a dream I set aside after learning the Rockettes didn’t allow Black women until 1987).
But as a growing dancer, I witnessed things that were never directly said but that directly contrasted the compliments I received. Things that, in many cases, could only truly be seen and felt:
The convention ballroom crowds that noticeably thinned out near the end of the day when it was time for tap class.
The lack of my peers’ attendance in tap class at my home studio (unless someone was setting a piece).
The well-intentioned comments from strangers who found out I tap danced and mentioned that “not many people do that anymore.”
The message was clear. Tap dance is less than. Tap dance isn’t worth learning. Tap dance isn’t popular. Tap dance isn’t cool. This narrative followed me through my adolescence and made me resent tap dance — my foundation style. I should have been thrilled to build my skills in this storied vocabulary. Instead, I rebelled, wanting to be a proficient contemporary dancer with Gucci feet that my peers would envy.
Moving to Chicago was the best thing that could have ever happened to me as a tap dancer. Living in a city that was one of the original birthplaces of jazz and housed some of the best tap dancers I’ve had the pleasure of seeing, dancing with and learning from allowed me to deconstruct the harmful distortions I held toward tap dance and build a new belief system, step by step.
I challenged my previous dismissive thoughts about tap dance and replaced those falsehoods with new ones. I learned that tap dance classes could sell out studios and tap concerts could pack theaters. Most importantly, I discovered that a professional dance career beyond my wildest dreams was on the other side of me leaning into a gift I’d been reluctant to acknowledge.
I’ve done a lot of work to deconstruct and decolonize how I think about tap. I’m better for it and still have a lot of learning to do. Still, there are those moments when my new outlook is confronted by prevailing ignorance:
The mocking steps non-tap dancers do emulate what they see on stage, but haven’t taken the time to learn.
The many award show performances where dancers fake tap steps over pre-recorded sounds (Another blog post in and of itself. Seriously, can we stop doing this?).
The studios that happily schedule other rehearsals over tap, or don’t require tap for their higher-level dancers, despite the benefits it has on musicality, spatial awareness and stage presence.
Possibly worst of all, in the dismissive use of “tap dancing” as a derogatory term for politicians or public figures who’ve sacrificed their values to appease mostly white institutions (something Star Dixon, one of my teachers, speaks out about a lot on social media).
The issue for me is no longer that tap dance is misunderstood. Misunderstanding can be a beautiful genesis to greater understanding if we remain open to new information. I certainly still have far too much to learn about The Dance to sit in judgment of a person whose knowledge base resembles my own circa 2012. But what I continue to see is people who know they don’t know and don’t try to know. That’s what needs to change.
Tap dance is a storied tradition that rests at the intersection of American history, Black history, women’s history and countless other traditions that weave the fabric of our country and our world. And it is far from dying. But in a world where dance studios say they want to be more inclusive, more body positive and more historically accurate, actions and unspoken choices speak louder than words. Studios, producers, and choreographers have a great deal of power (whether deserved or undeserved). How they use this power is the difference between tap dance getting a platform it deserves or being relegated to the wings and not presented appropriately. Simply put, paying lip service to elevating tap dance won’t cut it in 2026.
When you demonstrate that respecting The Dance isn’t a priority, you’re telling your surrounding community it is appropriate to follow suit. This involves everything from not including Tap dance pieces in your showcases and concerts, to not giving the Tap dance companies you present the best opportunity to perform at the highest level possible (inappropriate flooring, lack of tap mics, improper dressing rooms, etc.), to not taking the time to include pictures of tap dance legends on the walls of your studio or in your history books.
As we cross the threshold from Black History Month to Women’s History Month and beyond, watch a documentary, pick up a book, or just jump into a class (you’ll be surprised how welcome you’re made to feel). This is especially important for my fellow dance teachers. It’s okay if tap dance isn’t your style. But holding your students back or discouraging them from pursuing tap because of your lack of knowledge isn’t okay. If you’re producing a show or presenting a festival or even hosting a history discussion, make sure tap dance has a place (and the resources to be seen and heard the way it was intended). Most importantly, resist the urge to spew more misinformation about tap dance, its origins and the intricate beauty in its rhythms. An offhand joke, false statement or eyeroll can last far beyond you and the people around you. You never know who might be listening. Ignorance isn’t an excuse, nor is lack of resources. Public knowledge isn’t the only thing at stake — an aspiring hoofer’s ability to appreciate what a blessing it is to be a tap dancer is also on the line.
Take it from me.
Jorie Goins
