Volume 19:1/2 spring 2006 ISSN 1075-0029

ma g a z i n e o f t h e ph i l a d e l p h i a f o l k l o r e p r o j e c t

l Masked men of Cambodia

l Dancing the monkey

l Community fabric

l Stories from the shop floor

l We shall not be moved

l Giving away ODUNDE photos

16 Stories from the shop floorBy Suzanne Povse

20 Giving away photosBy Debora Kodish

32 Membership form

3 From the editor

4 Masked men of CambodiaBy Toni Shapiro-Phim

8 Dancing the monkey roleBy Thavro Phim

10 Community fabricBy Debora Kodish

12 My people have always worked with clothBy Betty Leacraft

14 Spirit TalksBy Ayesha Rahim

Front cover:Market truck.

Batik by PaupauAwuklu. Photo:

Will Brown

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Works in progress is the magazine of thePhiladelphia Folklore Project, a 19-year-oldpublic interest folklife agency. We work withpeople and communities in the Philadelphiaarea to build critical folk cultural knowledge,sustain the complex folk and traditional arts ofour region, and challenge practices thatdiminish these local grassroots arts andhumanities. To learn more, please visit us:www.folkloreproject.org or call 215.726.1106.

philadelphia folklore project staff

Editor/PFP Director: Debora Kodish Associate Director: Toni Shapiro-PhimMembers’ Services Coordinator: Roko KawaiDesigner: IFE designs + AssociatesPrinting: Garrison Printers

[ Printed on recycled paper]

philadelphia folklore project board

Linda Goss Germaine IngramIfe Nii-Owoo Yvette SmallsEllen Somekawa Dorothy WilkieMary Yee Juan Xu

we gratefully acknowledge support from:

l The National Endowment for the Arts, which believes that a great nation deserves great arts

l Pennsylvania Council on the Arts l Pennsylvania Historical and Museum

Commissionl The Humanities-in-the Arts Initiative,

administered by The Pennsylvania Humanities Council, and funded principallyby the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts

l The Philadelphia Cultural Fundl Philadelphia Music Project, a grant program

funded by The Pew Charitable Trusts and administered by the University of the Arts

l Dance Advance, a grant program funded by The Pew Charitable Trusts andadministered by the University of the Arts

l The Pew Charitable Trustsl The Malka and Jacob Goldfarb Foundationl The Samuel Fels Fundl Independence Foundationl The Connelly Foundationl The Philadelphia Foundationl Stockton Rush Bartol Foundationl Philadelphia Cultural Management Initiative,

a grant program funded by The PewCharitable Trusts and administered by the Drexel University Arts Administration Program

l The Hilles Fundl The Walter J. Miller Foundationl The Henrietta Tower Wurts Foundationl The Douty Foundationl and wonderful individual Philadelphia

Folklore Project members

thank you to all

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editor

On April 7, we at the FolkloreProject lost our dear friendRosemary Cubas to cancer. Thelast issue of this magazinedescribed the fight againsteminent domain abuse and theunjust takings of peoples’ homesin too many Philadelphianeighborhoods. This fight wasRosemary’s passion. With greatsorrow, we lament her passing:we are among the many peoplewho miss her dearly. It was aprivilege to have known her.

Rosemary was here, in ournew home, present even whileshe was battling cancer — herlast battle, fought, like others,with courage, strength, humorand love, her eyes wide open.Her life was with others, incommunity, in struggle.

Rosemary treated people withreal respect. She listened. Andshe truly heard: she knewenough about peoples’situations to put their storiestogether so that they began toadd up. And she got people tolisten to one another’s stories, tocreate a kind of common wealthof experience, a communitycurrency reckoned in a kind ofvalue that people could know tobe true, believe in, and build on.

Describing the process oflearning to fight bureaucracies,Rosemary told me, “We had tounlearn writing and talking fromthe heart.” Saying this, she wasruefully acknowledging howordinary peoples’ knowledge(and ways of talking) are toooften disrespected: she was alsodescribing what she liked aboutthe idea of folklore: a way ofvaluing (and paying attention to)the terms in which peopledescribe their own experiences.“I would have liked to have beena folklorist,” she mused once.

“You are one,” I insisted. Rosemary’s brand of activism

and folklore involved carrying avision of justice grounded inrespecting ordinary peoples’capacity to name andrighteously change theirsituations. She consistentlyacted as if basic human rights,freedom and justice, started withlistening to people, payingattention to the stories behindthe stories, and assuming thatrespect was everyone’s due. Shewill be greatly missed. And hervoice and example will be in ourminds, hearts and actions.

• • •

Four examples of recent work fillthis issue. Lakhon kohl, all-maleCambodian masked dancedrama, is danced today by artistswho are the first generation tobring the genre back to life afterthe genocide of the 1970s inCambodia. Only a handful ofdancers in the U.S. know lakhonkhol, and the performances thatwill occur as part of PFP’s DanceHappens Here weekendprogram, on May 26th and 27th,represent a small effort to investin the life and development ofthis art.

Suzanne Povse is a top skilledtool and dye maker. Her stories,shared at one of our artistsalons, represent her firstattempt to go on record with herexperiences as the only womanon the shop floor for most of her28 working years. Her writing isa contribution to occupationalfolklore, offering a window intothe realities of working women’slives. And it is a reminder thatculture is not only a matter ofethnicity, but of work life as well.

We recently gave away Tom

Morton’s beautiful photographsof ODUNDE (which had been onexhibit in our first-floor gallery),trading them for peoples’ storiesabout the images. In doing so,we stimulated a process wherepeople talked together aboutwho should own goods thatwere in many ways communityproperty. We were tutored bypeople who shared what theyknew: knowledge, stories, livedexperience. Giving awayphotos— or, more properly,exchanging them, returningthem, keeping them incirculation— multiplied value:the process deepenedrelationships between andamong those who haveparticipated in ODUNDE,including PFP staff, builtknowledge, stimulated stories(making more powerful art) andgood history-telling. Ultimately,it brought people together toshare what they cared about.

Our newest exhibition,“Community Fabric” is also anexperiment, just as the offeringof photos was. We acceptedwork from everyone whoapplied and our gallery walls arefilled with a stunning variety ofpieces claiming variousconnections to communitytraditions. Excerpts in this issuefrom interviews with twoparticipating artists representsome of the stories behind thecreation of these objects.

What is truly remarkable ishow all of the people included inthis issue have persevered inexploring what have beenminority traditions, difficultpaths. We are honored to beallies in their efforts.

— Debora Kodish

f r o m t h e

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Toni Shapiro-Phim,PFP Associate Director,was in Cambodia in2004 for the worldpremiere of the lakhonkhol piece, "Veyreap'sBattle." She was thereagain in 2006 toundertake additionalresearch anddocumentation, andhas been instrumentalin bringing PFP'slakhon khol excerpt toPhiladelphia.

The monkey generalHanuman (SoeurThavarak) battlesMachanub (PhonSopheap), the son henever knew. When thetwo realize theirrelationship, they hugand cry and put theirdifferences behindthem. From“Veyreap's Battle," anexcerpt from the"Reamker,” RoyalUniversity of Fine ArtsTheatre, 2004. Photoby James Wasserman.

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In the 1940s, Cambodia’sQueen KossamakNearyroath was so inspiredby “monkey” dancers in a

troupe based in a villageacross the river from thecapital, that she decided tomake a radical change in thecomposition of her own royaldance ensemble. Shepresided over the country’sroyal troupe, which was, atthat time, exclusively female. The royal (or classical)dancers performed sacredpieces connecting earthlybeings to the heavens, andlengthy dance-dramasenacting mythico-historicaltales of love, magic, andbattles. Goddesses andprincesses, gods and princes,ogres (most oftenrepresenting evil), andmonkeys (usually portrayinggood) populated thesedances, with all charactersbeing performed by women.And then, at an annualfestival on the palace groundsfeaturing crafts, food, andperformances by people frommany regions of the country,the Queen became entrancedby boys from the nearbycountryside dancing themonkey character roles. Sheproceeded to recruit some ofthose very children to danceas monkeys in the royaltroupe. The troupe was nolonger all-female; the monkey

roles have been danced onlyby men and boys ever since.

The boys she recruited hadbeen performing as part of atradition that almost parallelsthat of royal/classical dance.In village settings, all-maletroupes (with men playing theprincesses, too) wouldperform at New Year andother major occasions, as akind of offering to the spiritsand deities. This performancetradition, known as lakhonkhol, has as its sole repertoireepisodes of the Reamker, theCambodian version of theRamayana epic of Indianorigin. The troupe of Vat SvayAndet village, the troupespotted by the Queen all those decades ago, is still in existence. It is thought tobe the only lakhon kholtroupe in the country to havesurvived the war andrevolution of the 1970s.

Every New Year (forCambodians, the New Yearfalls in mid-April), the VatSvay Andet troupe enactsexcerpts from the Reamker,seeking to propitiate ancestralspirits for the sake of the well-being of the village as awhole. Before the upheavalsof the late-20th century, theperformance ritual lastedseven nights. These days itextends just three, yetnonetheless remains acomplex, multilayered

fusion of various spiritualtrajectories, and a focus ofpreparation and excitementfor villagers of all generations.

The Reamker is the tale ofthe adventures of Preah Ream(Prince Rama) who, exiled tothe forest (through no fault ofhis own), travels with his wife,Neang Seda (Princess Sita)and his brother Preah Leak(Prince Laksmana). The evilogre, Reap (Ravana), ruler ofthe land of Langka, kidnapsthe princess, whisking her offto his island abode. PreahReam calls upon his monkeysoldiers to help rescue her.Following numerousadventures involving magic,battles, tests of loyalty andendurance, the monkeysoldiers and the princes arrivein the land of the ogres anddefeat the enemy, freeing theprincess.

The first Khmer (Cambodian)language version of theRamayana story appeared inthe 16th or 17th century. Themanuscript was most likely alibretto for lakhon kholperformance, recited by anarrator. The Reamker hasinspired artistic creation insculpture, painting, and dance-drama for centuries. Theroyal/classical dancers stillcount this story as a coreelement of their repertoire.

[Continued on next page Ý]

Masked men of Cambodia

b y T o n i S h a p i r o - P h i m

The episode most critical forperformance at New Year timein Vat Svay Andet is that ofKumbhakar and the release ofwaters. The ogre Kumbhakar, abrother of Reap, stretches hisenlarged body across a river,effectively cutting off the flowof water to Preah Ream’ssoldiers. The monkey warriorAngkut transforms himself intoa dead dog, and floats towardKumbhakar. Kumbhakar’sdisgust mounts as he,unsuccessful at driving off thedead animal, becomesoverwhelmed by theunbearable odor. At last, hejumps up and releases the waters.

For the residents of Vat SvayAndet, the performance of therelease of waters is supposedto bring about their very own

release of waters – the rains –soon after the dry heat of NewYear time gets almostintolerable. New Year occurs at the height of the hot season.With water being the lifebloodof the countryside,performance of this episodebecomes a kind of magic act,assuring fertility of the land.

Village lakhon kholperformers may havetrained for many years,often under the

tutelage of a relative, but theyare not solely dancers. Mostare farmers by day. However,as New Year or some otherspecial occasion nears, theywill spend evenings practicing,preparing for the event thatincludes the participation ofeveryone, young and old, asperformer or spectator, and

people from nearby villages as well. The perpetuation oftradition is perceived to carrythe possibility of combatingcommunal ills and re-establishing natural order.

After an elaborate offeringceremony in which Hindugods, the Buddha andancestral teachers and spiritsof the arts are invoked, theperformers take their placesoutdoors inside a woodenrectangular structure enclosedonly at one end. Two or threenarrators intone a recitation inalternation with the music of apin peat orchestra (a mainlypercussive ensemble that alsoaccompanies classical dance)as the dancers—ogres,monkeys, princes andprincesses, all masked—enacttheir tale.

In the 1960s, whenCambodia’s Royal University of Fine Arts was in its infancy,teams of artists from theschool traversed Cambodia,researching and practicingtraditional arts. Actors,musicians and dancers tookwhat they had seen or learned

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Masked men of Cambodia/continued from p. 5

“In the 1960s, when Cambodia’s Royal University ofFine Arts was in its infancy, teams of artists from theschool traversed Cambodia, researching and practicing traditional arts.”

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and, once back at theacademy in the capital,proceded to re-make andrefine those arts for publicperformance on aproscenium stage. It was inthis way that lakhon kholdeveloped a professional,theatrical version – a versionconsidered traditionalenough (and importantenough) to garnergovernment support for itsre-creation immediately afterthe ouster of the KhmerRouge.

Lakhon khol, along withmost other culturaland artistic practices,was threatened with

extinction during the KhmerRouge era (1975-1979) inwhich close to a quarter ofthe population perished fromstarvation, disease, forcedlabor and execution. In early1979, surviving professionalartists who had regrouped inPhnom Penh, the capital,estimated that between 80-90% of their colleagues in allfields of the arts had died inthe less-than-four years in

which the Khmer Rouge hadcontrol of the country.Immediately after the ousterof the Khmer Rouge, theDepartment of Arts of theMinistry of Information andCulture, and some provincial

offices of the Ministry ofCulture oversaw thedevelopment of lakhon kholtroupes. At the dancedepartment of the School ofFine Arts (which is now onceagain the Royal University ofFine Arts), certain malestudents were selected totrain in this technique.Support was also given tothe village of Vat SvayAndet, to make masks andcostumes and musical

instruments. The theatrical version is

dynamic—athletic andacrobatic, without extendedseated sequences in whichnarrators intone the story-line, as one finds in the

village context. BecausePhnom Penh’s lakhon kholperformers also train in thefundamentals of classicaldance, their postures adhereto a strict canon, though theyare given more latitude forimprovisation than are theirclassical dance counterparts.They also have more latitudethan their villagecounterparts to elaborate onany number of episodes

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Opposite: EmTheay, classicaldance teacher andsinger, dresses alakhon kholperformerbackstage. Eachpart of the many-layered costumesmust be wrapped,tied or sewn intoplace for everyperformance.

This page: Youngmonkeys getdistracted by eachother whileguarding PrinceRama, who is,ultimately,kidnapped by theogres, in "Veyreap'sBattle.” Photos byJames Wasserman,2004

[Continued on p. 23 Ý]

“Actors, musicians and dancers took what they had seenor learned and, once back at the academy in the capital,proceded to re-make and refine those arts for publicperformance on a proscenium stage.”

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Thavro Phim and masks— all representingcharacters in the Reamker. Photo: Toni

Shapiro-Phim

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by Thavro Phim

There’s anepisode fromthe Reamker,the Cambodianversion of theRamayana epicof Indian origin,in whichHanuman, themonkey

general, flies too close to thesun. The sun’s power is sostrong that Hanumandisintegrates. (There is a lotof magic in Cambodian epicsand legends. Monkeys can flyand can also dive to thebottom of the ocean. Giantsbattle princes. Celestialbeings descend to earth toplay in lakes and forests.) Inthe Reamker, the sun godnotices that a bit of themonkey remains. His essenceis floating about. The sun

god brings Hanuman back tolife from that “essence.”

Cambodian culture, andperhaps the dance inparticular, has a history thatreminds me of Hanuman’sexperiences. Over thecenturies, war and revolutionhave threatened the dance’ssurvival. As recently as thelate 1970s, the leadership ofthe Khmer Rouge regime (inpower from 1975 to early1979) officially banned artsthat had spiritual or court(royal) ties. They introduced awhole new genre of danceand music to Cambodia—revolutionary arts thatglorified peasant andindustrial labor and thatcriticized previous regimesand ways of life. Dance as weCambodians hadknown it was no longer

practiced or performed. But in 1979, immediately

after that regime’s overthrow,even though between 80 to90 percent of the country’sprofessional artists (dancers,musicians, actors, poets,playwrights, etc.) had diedfrom starvation, disease andexecution under KhmerRouge rule, the essence ofCambodian dance had notbeen destroyed. Enough of itremained so that it could bebrought back to life.

I was born and raised inCambodia, where I startedstudying dance at the Schoolof Fine Arts (currently theRoyal University of Fine Arts)in 1980. I was part of the firstgeneration to try to re-createthe dance and music

Dancingthe monkey role

[Continued on p. 24 Ý]

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During a gathering of artists at theFolklore Project, Betty Leacraftcommented, “I come from peoplewho always worked with cloth.”Relatives said to have beencraftspeople included her great-grandmother, a professionalseamstress who sewed for wealthywhite people in Vance County,North Carolina. Had some of thosefamilies preserved as treasuredkeepsakes any of the christeninggowns or wedding dresses madeby her great-grandmother? Bettywondered. If she could find some ofthese pieces now, having spent alifetime finding her own way as anartist, she might be able to see whather great-grandmother had done,and how she did it. She might beable to retrieve some stitches,practices, knowledge, from thework itself.

The situation she describesrelates to a key concern of PFP: howtraditional arts are passed on,acquired, or reclaimed—especiallywhere there is unequal access toresources. Not everyone has accessto traditions of craft: even thosewho are descended fromcraftspeople of skill and distinctioncannot count on following a pathmade easier by a knowing andloving mentor.

Like Betty, many other

participating artists in our new“Community Fabric” exhibitionhave continued to work in particularfolk and traditional art formsdespite daunting challenges: warand repression, silencing andopposition, personal loss andeconomic hardship, and thedifficulties of mastering hand-mademinority and alternative traditionswhen older mentors are gone andknowledge seemingly lost. Someartists have been able to do theirwork because of communitysupport; still others have had tosingle-mindedly pursue their ownpaths, painstakingly researchingspecific family or regional crafttraditions, or developing their ownapproaches to mediums to whichthey are drawn. And for yet others,work has been a place for pleasure,and creative expression. The smallgallery contains only 29 works, yetsuggests lifetimes of effort anddedication.

I knew Ayesha Rahim’s crochetedhats (“crowns,” people call them)by sight before I knew her. I sawthem—distinctive, beautiful, eachsuited to its wearer—at ODUNDE,community festivals, neighborhoodactivities, on Saturday groceryshoppers at the Reading TerminalMarket (where, it turns out, she hadonce worked at the Amazulu craft

stand). I couldn’t help myself. I’d asktotal strangers, “Is that one ofAyesha Rahim’s hats?” I knew thatwe wanted to include her crochetwork in this exhibition.

And as it turns out, some of herhats were already in our gallery:pictured in our recent exhibition ofTom Morton’s ODUNDE photos. Inseveral photographs, Yoruba Orishapriest Bob Thompson wears one ofthese delicately crocheted hats.Others are in the possession ofmusician Omomola Iyabunmi anddancer Dottie Wilkie, also picturedin that show. It seems especiallyfitting that one exhibition in ournew gallery flows into the next inthis way, and that in tracing someof the threads of community fabric,we follow Ayesha Rahim’s work—already embraced by a communityof people.

Except from interviews withAyesha Rahim and Betty Leacraftfollow. They are among 19 artistsfeatured in “Community Fabric”at PFP through September. Moreinformation is available on our website.

Works in Community Fabricexhibition (l-r) by Rose Miller,Yekini Atanda, and Pang Xiong Sirirathasuk Sikoun. Photos by Will Brown

Community

fabricby debora kodish

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My maternal grandmother SadieArtist Wills was the first to put aneedle and thread in my hand.And I was about five then. Hermother, my great-grandmotherBetty Artist, was a professionalseamstress in Vance County,North Carolina, probably aroundthe late 1800s. My grandmoth-er’s aunt, Laura Green—mymother told me that Aunt Lauraused to hold quilting bees at herhouse in Henderson, NorthCarolina, in Vance County. Andmy mother’s job as a kid was toseparate the colors of cloth thatthe women would use. And sheremembers my aunt saying,“Send that red down the mid-dle.” I’m not sure whether shemeant down the middle of thequilt, or down the middle of thequilt block.

And my grandmother told methat when she was a young girl,

when her mother’s legs wouldget tired working the treadle ofthe sewing machine, part of mygrandmother’s job was to getdown there and push the treadlewith her hands.

I am sure that there is some-body somewhere that my great-grandmother had sewn for, inthat community—because any-body who was a good dressmak-er in that time used to sew for awhite person who had money.And I used to wonder if therewas someone, some familydown there, that still had in theirpossession something that wassewn by my great-grandmother—say a christening gown or awedding gown, or a garmentthat represented a rite of pas-sage, the kind of heirloom thatfamilies would keep.

My grandmother told me thather father, Nathan Artist, a bar-

ber and a cane rush weaver,made chair bottoms. I rememberNanny telling me, “I am sorrythat I didn’t learn to do that so Icould have shown you, becauseI know you would have donesomething with it.”

A female head of the house-hold, my grandmother was goodat making things that broughtmoney into the house. Shemade hair pomade that she soldto local beauty parlors and jewel-ry accessories that I helped hermake. I remember her braidingstockings and sewing themtogether into oval braided rugs.

I do remember my grand-mother having made these littlejumpers for myself and my firstcousin and my sister, all trimmedwith rickrack. Rickrack wassomething that she evidentlywas fond of. (In one of thepieces in the PFP show, I used

Betty Leacraft: I know that my people alwaysworked with cloth

“My inspiration is usually based on textiles and garments and adornments that are part of the ritual traditions of the African diaspora and people of color.”

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the gold rickrack because itcalls up the memory of a trim-ming I remember Nanny usinga lot.)

All of us learned how tosew, as a result of my grand-mother. I remember cutting upand hand-sewing four squares,sewing two of them, and call-ing it a straight skirt for a doll.The other two squares, Ithought were supposed to be ablouse. That’s the first thing Ican recall trying to make. I wasaround five. Actually, the firstthings I ever sold were pothold-ers from a loom that my grand-mother bought me, and I real-ized that people would actuallybuy them.

And I think my grandmothermay have taken notice of myefforts and thinking maybe Iwas trying to do something,she bought me a little cross-stitch kit. That’s the first thing Ican remember her showing mehow to do.

And my grandmother toldme that when I was young, Ialways would find a scissors,no matter where she hid them.And that when I found scissorsI would for some reason startcutting up photographs. Andonce I remember cutting thewhole side of a bedspreadfringe off.

My second grandmother,Monay Wills, who was fromTrinidad, was the other personin my life who really under-stood that my ability to sewwas more than just a passingfancy. She would tell me aboutdifferent kinds of fabric. Andshe paid for me to go toParsons School of Design for asummer, in the 1970s. Beingfrom the Islands, she comesfrom a tradition of going to peo-ple to get their clothes made,

so it was something that shewas very used to. It was byway of my maternal grandfa-ther, Albert C. Wills, a native of Georgetown, Guyana, that I got my exposure to world cultures. The first Africans I ever met, a married couplefrom Ghana, lived on the thirdfloor of Granddaddy’s house in Camden.

My grandmother’s sewingmachine was a Brother, with aknee lever—the first machine I

ever sewed on.My mother didn’t sew but

was artistic. So that gift ofsewing skipped a generationand came to me. I really feelthat the ability to do this kind of creative work was there before me and it gets throughto whoever has the capacity to carry it.

I have made custom cloth-ing for many years. I worked atFabric Workshop, as head fab-ric construction technician(1980-1986) facilitating thework of artists in residence. I

won some trophies in nationalcompetitions of the NationalAssociation of Fashion andAccessory Designers, as amember of the Philadelphiachapter. I have learned by self-directed apprenticeship.

I like to create works thatblur the lines between quilts,wall hangings, wearable arts,sculpture and installation.

My inspiration is usuallybased on textiles and garmentsand adornments that are part of

the ritual traditions of theAfrican Diaspora and people ofcolor. All those influencestogether helped to shape mycultural frame of reference.Much of the work I create isinspired by traditional sourcesand realized as contemporaryexpressions.

2006 Spring WIP 13

Two pieces (“Everygoodbye is notgone,” and “Prayerof faith”) from theAncestor series, byBetty Leacraft, 1999.Photos: Will Brown,2006

I

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I had not a clue. I am justfiguring out how images are inthe atmosphere and they comefrom God. How else could theycome? I see them in my sleep. Iwas a designer and I made theclothes that I saw in my sleep. Ididn’t have the money to makethe outfits that I saw and I wouldgo to my cousin. It only took adollar for fabric. And all I everneeded was a measuring tapeand pins. I never made a pattern.And I came out of high schoolbeing “Best Dressed”—GratzHigh School, 1955. I gotscholarships to Moore Collegeof Art. When I got there, I wenton and I applied myself becausemy attitude was, “I was anartist.” I didn’t care about moneyand I didn’t care about what theythought I should care about.

I was concerned with people.And how people were poor andthey were miserable, unhappy.And I knew that at a very youngage and I always wanted tomake a difference. I didn’t even

know what I could do but I had a sense of something being not right.

I went to Moore, and at thattime my mother was doing daywork for six or seven dollars aday. My father wasn’t giving usmoney to support us. I used tofeel so guilty asking her fordollars for bus fare. I didn’t have anyone encouraging me,mentoring me. Moore was only10 blocks from my house, atBroad and Oxford. And I didn’teven realize it.

I was already making clothes.People said, “Remember whenyou made me this?” “Do youremember you made thissorority outfit?”

I was already making clothesfor artists, for people who sang. Iwas doing all right. Before Iwent to Moore I was makingneckties. I was doing fabricdesign. I was designing shoesand dying shoes.

But when I went to Moore,they took— it was like rape.

Because they were telling methat what I was doing waswrong. And I became veryinsecure. And I had to startusing patterns when I wasn’tusing patterns. I wasdiscouraged.

So I dropped out. I was notgiving up. I was not going to letthem tell me how to makeanything. I refused to let thathappen again. I refused to letthem make it a job.

I had no knowledge of crochet.My mother was creative. Thishouse. Same house as I live innow. My mother had creativeability. She made my promgown and she made rugs. Shewas immaculate. She came upfrom Virginia.

My mother did not do crochet.But I knew people who didcrochet. People helped me out.My hands—they never showedme how to hold my hands. Idon’t know one stitch fromanother. I just make the stitches.

I started off making a kufi for

Ayesha Rahim: Spirit Talks>pfp

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“Spirit comes and spirit talks. Spirit tells you where to putthis color, this shell. So that’s

basically how the hats were made.”

2006 Spring WIP 15

Ayesha Rahim wearing oneof her crowns. Photo: DeboraKodish, 2006

the Muslims. I remember I made abigger one for my own head.

Charita Powell, from the standAmazulu, in the Reading Market,saw it and said, “Oh!” We becamefriends. She said, “Did you makethat? Could you make me one?” Shehas the very first one.

The thing about it, it’s like spiritwork. I was over at TempleUniversity selling the hats and I wasimpressed because they were tellingme what part of Africa they were

from. Spirit comes and spirit talks.Spirit tells you where to put thiscolor, this shell. So that’s basicallyhow the hats were made. Spirit talksso much— I had one hat, I had tocover it up at night. The talking atnight kept me up! Not all of them arelike that. Some of them are reallyspecial. But if you try to do it on yourown, they’ll make you take it out andtake back up where you left off. It’squite an experience. I have had aspecial life because of the

creativity—and it puts you in ameditative state. It’s a place that yougo, you are so in the spirit. You won’treally withdraw, but you don’t reallywant to come back.

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stories fromthe shop floor

Suzanne Povse outsidePFP, 2006. Photo:

Debora Kodish

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by suzanne povse

Suzanne Povse has begunwriting about her experiences as a tool and die maker. She says,"During my twenty-eight years asa blue-collar woman in anontraditional skilled labor job,I've worked as a machineoperator, an apprentice, ajourneyman tool and die andmodel maker, and, presently, as a helicopter transmissionmechanic. I've stood inunemployment lines and walkedpicket lines. I've worked in unionshops and in small job shopswhere the only benefit was freecoffee. Except for a brief periodduring my first year, I have beenthe only female in the shops I’veworked in." Her stories give us awindow onto the occupationalfolk culture of women workers:they focus on how she made theworkplace human for herselfwithout alienating malecoworkers, how she learned hercraft despite obstacles, and howshe learned to change theworkplace. Suzanne writes forherself, for other women who,like her, were among the firstgeneration of women after WWIIto work on the machine shopfloor, and for women who arejust entering skilled labor jobs.She writes as a blue-collarwoman, claiming the importanceand legitimacy of her work.Suzanne was featured at a PFPArtist Salon on May 6th.

FIRST DAY/HOW I GOT THEREWhen the elevator doors openedon the sixth floor, my knees wereshaking and I was assaulted witha wall of noise and unfamiliarsmells. Looking straight ahead, Iwalked fifty feet to the wall withthe pay phone and turned leftpast the break room, just as myfriend had instructed me. I found

the superintendent’s office doorimmediately past the break roomdoor and on the right. Third goalcomplete. The first had been tofind the appropriate parking lotand a space for my car close tothe main gate. The second goalwas to find the administrativeoffice that was to issue my workbadge, the entrance to thebuilding that housed the machineshop, and the elevator to thesixth floor. The third was to findthe superintendent’s office once Ireached the sixth floor. The fourthgoal was to survive the day. I putmy hand around the doorknoband entered. June immediatelylooked up at me from hertypewriter and stood. “I’mSuzanne, the new machineoperator,” I said as confidently asI could. Of course I was thinkingthat I should have introducedmyself some other way.

“We’ve been expecting you,”she said, smiling with a hint of asmirk. She knocked on the inneroffice door and, opening it,announced to the person on theother side that the new machinisthad arrived. There was a scrapeof chair and through the dooremerged a hulking 6’2” man withslicked-back hair and an angularface. “This is Suzanne, Nick.”There was an absence of ahandshake.

"Stan’s going to be her boss. I’ll page him.”

"Where should she put her coatand what bathroom should sheuse?” June asked the boss’s back.He stopped and made adeliberate turn. Looking directlyat me, and with contempt in hisvoice, Nick said, “If she wants aman’s job, she can use the men’sroom!” The office had waist-height windows that allowed Nicka panoramic view of much of theshop: a bank of benches withtoolboxes and beyond that

Bridgeport milling machines,Milwaukee horizontal mills, andHardinge lathes. This was myintroduction to the machine shop.It was on the top floor of a block-square brick factory building fromthe early 1900s. A week before, Ihad had an interview in an officebuilding adjacent to this one. Theinterviewer was a more refinedman somewhat more cordialthan Nick. When he spread theblueprint for a machine part onthe table in front of me, I had noproblem answering the questionson overall dimensions and holedimensions. And when hehanded me a machined part anda set of micrometers andverniers, I imagined that I did notfumble as I held the part in onehand and operated the gaugeswith the other. I hesitated onlyslightly as I studied the barrel toread the dimensions withintenths of thousandths. I knew thatI wasn’t the first woman they hadinterviewed and that they wereinterviewing me only becausethey were required to. Title VII ofthe 1964 Civil Rights Actprohibited discrimination basedon race, color, religion, sex andnational origin. And by 1977 theWomen’s Movement waspushing the bar. At the end oftwenty minutes, he took off hisglasses, looked at me withoutexpression, and said, “Well, Ican’t think of any reason not tohire you. Report to the machineshop on Monday. Pick up yourbadge in Personnel first. Yourshift starts at seven.”

Two months prior to this, afriend who was a welder in thissame machine shop had told methat the company was hiringmachinists. I was looking for ajob. A union election for shopstewards and chairmen wastaking place at that time, and

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18 WIP 2006 Spring

campaigning in the shop was atits peak. The incumbentchairman and shop steward hadcome into my friend’s weldingbooth to ask for his vote. Whenhe assured them that their ticketwas the one he intended to back,they shook his hand and said, “Ifthere’s anything we can do foryou, let us know.”

“As a matter of fact, I heard thecompany’s hiring more entry-level machinists, and I have afriend who’s looking for a job.”

“Well, tell him to call and we’llmake certain he gets aninterview.”

“Hey, thanks. One thingthough, my friend’s a woman.”Tim had relished telling me thisand describing the look on theirfaces. They had committed. Whatcould they say? That afternoon, Iwas being schooled on readingblueprints and the art of handlinga set of micrometers like I knewwhat I was doing. “Hold the anvilin your palm and place yourthumb and index finger on thebarrel and turn it down gentlyagainst the part you’remeasuring. No. Don’t clampdown on the part like it was a 'C'clamp! Just touch lightly. You’llget the feel after a while.” So,with coaching and a few whitelies about my former shopexperiences, I landed my firstmachine shop job. That wastwenty-eight years ago.

JOB SHOPExit three-quarters of the wayaround a New Jersey trafficcircle, a quarter-mile down asuburban street lined with 1950'sone-story bungalows, make aright onto Lithrow. Feel and hearthe crunch of gravel under thetires of the 1972 Impala thatsomeone gave you. Pass thebrick Cape Cod with a lawnjockey whose face has beenpainted white. The gravel road isonly four houses long, and at theend is a long, low, flat-roofedcinderblock building and a line often vehicles. I turn 90 degrees

and back into a parking space so Iwill be pointed in the samedirection as everyone else. Notcalling attention to yourself is oneof the keys to survival when youare the only woman in the shop. Ipull and lift my gearshift intopark, turn off the lights, and slideout into a cold, dark Februarymorning. It’s 5:45 AM. Lockingmy car door out of habit, I crossthe gravel to the door labeled“office” in lowercase letters.

After eight weeks of “JobTransition Training” set up by theGE corporation because thegovernment required them to dothat when laying off largenumbers of people at one time, Ihave landed a job in a ten-mannonunion shop which has pickedup the exact same jobs that I hadbeen doing two months ago. It’s1991, and Jack Welsh, the CEO ofGE and trendsetter for corporateplanning, has started hisannihilation of the skilled laborforce and unions by institutingthe practice of “outsourcing.” Iwould be working the very samejobs with the very sameblueprints, only now I would bedoing them for four dollars anhour less and a very weak healthinsurance plan. I’m a singlemother with a ten-year-old sonand a six-year-old daughter.During my interview the weekbefore, I was handed a sheet ofpaper listing the benefits I wouldbe getting at my new job. At thebottom of this sheet, the lastbenefit listed, number eight, was“free coffee.” And you knowwhat? I felt damned lucky. Manyof the 100-plus men whom I hadworked with at RCA/GE inCamden, New Jersey, had beenunable to find jobs, let alone onethat involved only a four-dollar-an-hour pay cut. And this wasn’tjust a production shop. It was a“precision machining” modelshop. One-of-a-kind pieces andshort runs. A job any machinistwould die for.

The business had been startedthirty-five years before by twobrothers. And they had set up

with two lathes, two millingmachines and a cut-off saw intheir family garage. The garagewas now their storage area forstock and machinery not in use,and the small family house hadbecome the business office. Onebrother had bought the other outyears before. Now he and one ofhis daughters took care of thebooks and paperwork at deskssurrounded by filing cabinets onthe first floor of the house. Thesecond floor stored family andbusiness items.

The three sons were themanagers in the shop. One wasgeneral manager and job hunter,the second kept track of the jobsonce they reached the shop, andthe third was in charge ofinspection. Sibling rivalry wouldooze out onto the shop floor likemachine oil. Part of the skill ofmy job became the ability tolisten sympathetically with justthe right amount of indignation—but not so much that you couldbe perceived as taking sides,because at some point that sameday you would hear first hand orsecond the other brothers’ side ofthe current hot disagreement.

Ruthlessness and paybacks setthe tenor for the shop. One day Iunthinkingly threw a comeback atone of the brothers for acomment he had made about meand my work. At the end of theday as I started up the graveldrive to the small road that led tothe highway and home, Idetected a hard clicking soundfrom a back tire.

The attendant of the gas stationthat I limped into with my flatshowed me the bolt—one and ahalf inches long—that he hadextracted from the tire. It was theold “put a bolt upright in front ofthe tire” trick. I never mentionedthe flat, and became more carefulabout my witty responses.

One of the older men who hadworked for the family for aboutfifteen years lived with his elderlymother. When she became so illthat she required a lot of medicalcare, the family laid him off. We

stories from the shop floor/continued from p. 17

2006 Spring WIP 19

all knew that it was because hismother’s treatment had causedthe premiums for our healthinsurance to increase. Morepressure: We and our familieshad to remain healthy.

On that first day, afterreporting to the office, I backedmy Impala up to the shop’sgarage door and unloadedonto a hand-truck the twotoolboxes that I had struggledto load into the back seat veryearly that morning.

I began setting up my benchwhile two of the maintenancemen went out to the storagegarage to pick out an adequateBridgeport milling machinethat would be mine. Theydrove it in on a forklift, leveledit, and bolted it to the cementfloor. The boss gave me theblueprint and the stainlesssteel for my first job. I wasgiven no extra material tocover errors in the machiningprocess. Perfection wasrequired. Errors meantexceeding the estimated costof the job. They wanted toknow who was cutting intotheir profit margin That wasone big difference between aunion shop and a job shop. Forthe next three years, this 5x7corner of the shop was thelocation of my eight-and-a-half-hour work day. That dayincluded a strictly enforced ten-minute break in the morning, ahalf-hour unpaid lunch break,and a second ten-minute breakin the afternoon. Include acouple of hurried bathroombreaks in that day.

The bathroom was anotherexperience. It was strikinglydifferent from the bathrooms inthe large unionized shop fromwhich Jack Welsh hadbanished me. If I had notlearned the lesson before, Iknew it now. Without unions inproduction jobs, we would allbe taking a piss outside theback door of a shop or, if aman, in a can beside ourmachines. The bathroom for

the shop and office was in thefamily house, which was ashort walk out the back door ofthe shop and up a dirt walk.Open the back door of thehouse, make a rightimmediately upon entering,and before you was the door tothe bathroom. Halfway throughmy first bathroom break, Ifocused on a door that wasdirectly in front of me. I hadheard a slight clearing of athroat, the shifting of a body inhis chair. On the other side ofthe door, directly in front of me,was the father’s desk. I couldproceed no further. Rule: Holdwhatever as long as possible.Keep an eye out for when thefather makes a short visit to theshop, and then take a fast walkup the path to the house.

Lunch break in this job shopwas another uniqueexperience: eventually itseemed normal. Lunch was at11:00, four and a half hoursinto our workday. We wereallowed to wash up at 10:57.We had to punch out, be off theclock, for that 30-minuteperiod. The “old timers” in theshop were the men who hadworked there before theowners hired the lucky formerGE employees. Some of these“old timers” were friends ofthe “Old Man,” the father andoriginal owner of the company.Some had been with him forover twenty years. At least oneof these men got his son a jobin the shop, and this son hadput in at least eight years there.At exactly one minute beforelunchtime, the old timers, acouple of whom were in theirlate twenties, magically pulledout and unfolded cots, and atexactly 11:00 all the overheadshop lights and individualbench lights were doused. Itwas nap time. Those of us whochose not to nap, namely allthe newly hired GE people,pulled up our shop stools andhuddled around one of ourbenches, talked quietly, and

ate. Warm weather broughtrelief. The owners furnished uswith a picnic bench under thetrees behind our parked cars.

On my first day in the jobshop, I found out that of the sixformer GE employees hired, Iwas the only one who hadbeen designated a “trainee,”even though I had thirteenyears experience in themachine shop and hadcompleted a four-yearapprenticeship program in tooland die and model-making.Because of the large numbersof workers laid off by GE inJack Welsh’s push for recordprofits, the government had setup a program encouragingsmall businesses to hire laid-off workers and train them. Thegovernment would pay thewages of these trainees for sixmonths. I was this small shop’sfree labor for half a year. Iguess the owners thought thegovernment would findtraining a woman to become amachinist more credible thantraining a man. So, thequestion in my mind was this:“After a six month period offree labor, would I become apaid employee?” The answerwas, “No,” After six months, Iwas laid off for four months. Iwould be hired back for longperiods of time as theirworkload required. This patternof being laid off and calledback lasted for three years. Itseemed that when they neededto downsize, I would be given adifficult job that they hadunderbid and my performancewould be questioned when Icouldn’t do the job in theestimated time. I later found outthat at least one of my fellowworkers would create a scene byangrily refusing to do some ofthe difficult close-tolerance jobs.It would have never haveoccurred to me to refuse a job.There was no union and norecourse for the questionabletreatment I received.

stories from the shop floor/continued from p. 18

[Continued on p. 25 Ý]

20 WIP 2006 Spring

>pfp

*program

2006 Spring WIP 21[Continued on next page Ý]

Stories for pictures: giving photographs a good home

by Debora Kodish

AAn interesting thing kepthappening at our exhibition ofTom Morton’s photographs of theODUNDE festival, taken over aremarkable span of 30 years.Gravitating to photos ofthemselves, of family members,of old friends, people sharedstories and recollections. Oftenthey seemed unable to tearthemselves away from particularimages. Viewers got a certain lookin their eyes: transported by thephotos, they returned to othertimes, places, and people. Oneperson’s story promptedanother’s. People shared details,pieced together histories, namedwhat (and who) needs to beremembered, collectively linedout history.

The PFP is in the business ofsupporting vernacular habits andpractices—such as communitystorytelling around family photoslike these. These habits andpractices, in turn, work to sustainfolk and traditional arts groundedin visions of equity and justice.ODUNDE and Tom Morton’sphotos are all about freedom ofexpression, about claiming andenacting the right to self-definition. And we are well awareof the common experience ofcommunity people: oftenpictured, seldom in control oftheir own representations. Sowhen it came time to close theexhibition, we decided (withoutknowing exactly how we woulddo it) that we wanted to get thesephotos into places where theywould keep stimulating the kindof storytelling that was happeningin our gallery. Storytelling oftenneeds to be prompted, and Tom’s

powerful photographs wereobviously good tools for evokingnarratives.

And so we announced astorytelling contest, invitingpeople to send in their memories.We printed the poster to the left,with a clip-and-send form on theback. We asked for letters andemail. We posted the whole showon line, where it remains(www.folkloreproject.org). Mostimportant, we invited people inand recorded open storytellingsessions at the PFP office, led byODUNDE founder Lois Fernandezand her daughter, OshunbumiFernandez-Ogundana. Of course,people usually tell stories toothers, not in isolation, so wesought out people pictured in thephotos and recorded theiraccounts. We received (and heard)deeply moving recollections andthoughts on a wide range oftopics: about beloved individualswho have been part of 30 years ofculture-making, about particularyears at ODUNDE, about what theevent has come to mean, aboutmoments when people claimedthe right to call themselvesAfrican, about the struggle forself-definition. It quickly becameclear to ODUNDE and PFP thatthis needs to be part of a larger project.

We don’t yet know the nextsteps. But we do know a fewthings. In trying to return photosto places where they are knownand appreciated, we stimulated aprocess where people talkedtogether about who should owngoods that were in many wayscommunity property. We weretutored by people who shared

what they knew: knowledge,stories, lived experience. Whilethis seems simple, it requiresrevising assumptions that the bestplace for museum-quality photosis in museums. Or that a work ofart belongs to the person whopays for it. Or that value is bestreckoned in dollars. These firststeps in giving away photos—or,more properly, exchanging them,returning them, keeping them incirculation—multiplied value: theprocess deepened relationships,built knowledge, stimulatedstories (making more powerfulart) and good history-telling, andit brought people together toshare what they cared about. It isa good reminder that no oneowns culture, and that sharingresources, and keeping photos inthe community, in private homes,is a way to keep them active and present.

Some examples of contributedstories follow. We continue toinvite your contributions.

Saudah AminThe Fernandez sisters: I call themsister soldiers. All three of themgot ODUNDE together. I feel as ifODUNDE was the first thing thatever happened in Philadelphia tohelp the Negro and coloredpeople know they were African. I remember when I was a child,seven years old, I couldn’t waituntil April and the Elks Parade.That was the one that made mewant to dance to some drums.Because when I was a child, thatwas the only time you could hearthe drums.

22 WIP 2006 Spring

stories for pictures/continued from p. 21

When I was about 12, thePuerto Ricans came here, andthen you started hearing thedrums. Then I started dancing tomambo, cha-cha, and merengue.I would go into the house and Iwould dance to what the PuertoRicans were doing.

I met the Fernandez sisterswhen I was about 17 or 18. Theyused to be around the QueenMother. She had a house here,down the Bottom. Everyonewould come there for theteaching. When ODUNDE started,they were the ones that putPhiladelphia on the map forlearning we were AfricanAmericans.

Ayoluwa Eternity:About Bob ThompsonIn this photo he’s a praise singer /a mediator between spirit andhuman / chanting sanctifiedwords of anointment / offeringfruits and flowers inviting thedivine presence of Oshun / so shemay bestow her blessings,healings and wisdom upon herchildren… these spirit warriorsare gate-keepers of history …

Nia Bey Al-RasulI grew up in South Philadelphia.And I loved the Americanlifestyle. And it had nothing tooffer me. I just couldn’t enter.ODUNDE came through ACAF[African Cultural Art Forum],through my work with ACAF. Myfirst African introduction, theytaught me. They groomed me.Around the 1970s.

Then we heard aboutODUNDE. And we started doingthe vending at ODUNDE. Thevendors would come insometimes the night before, andwe would function as a familythrough the night. They’d comeand park in front of the area. Sleepin the car or in front of your station.ODUNDE was new to me. Ithoroughly enjoyed it. And I was avendor. And as we moved on inlife, I became a mother. Thereafter,we became ODUNDE people.

Of the children in the photos,

Ibn Daoud is now 21. One year,Mama Malikah taught him stilt-walking. One year, his little self—he was the only one, leading theprocession. Mukhtar, in thepicture, is Nadirah’s son, and nowhe is in the Gambia, learning thelanguage. He lived in a high-risein Jersey before he moved therewith his father’s people, and hecouldn’t run around. He wentthere to Gambia, and he said tohis mother, “I’m free!”

[About Lois Fernandez:] I sawher on the street, wearingbracelets all up her arm. I said tomyself, “I want to know who sheis.” And through ODUNDE I cameto know her. And that is a requestgranted by the Creator.

Did you know that she is theone responsible for getting theword “illegitimate” removedfrom birth certificates? So welove her so. I am thankful andgrateful to be able to say that Iam one of her daughters.

Katrina Hazzard-DonaldWhen we were marching backfrom the bridge, that’s when mygrandmother said to me—and Iwas very surprised, I had noidea—she said it was like MardiGras in Mobile when she wasgrowing up. And she was born inMobile. You know Mardi Grasbegan in Mobile. It didn’t begin inNew Orleans. And she talkedabout how much ODUNDEreminded her of Mardi Gras. Shesaid, “You know, Mardi Grasbegan in Mobile.” And she said itreminded her of marching in theline in Mardi Gras.

Benita Brown This is a shot of Benita Brown as Iwas part of ODUNDE festivalfrom the time I was a little girl.My mother used to take me to theODUNDE festival when I was likesix, seven, eight years old, but Inever knew I would eventuallybecome a part of the celebrationuntil I joined Kulu Mele back in1984-85 and I danced with Kulu

Mele before I left, and now I teachdance at Virginia State Universityand I teach traditional Africandance that I learned from Dottieand Baba and Wilkie, and also Itry to teach about the Orisha andthe movements of the Orisha,and I learned this from attendingODUNDE and being involvedwith the Philadelphia dancecommunity.

Arisa IngramTell you more history about thispicture here. This picture here is apicture of my late father, BabaIshangi. That’s my father there.He was the Egungun there forquite a few years—10 to 20 years.And, of course, I’m here, but I’min the front, guiding themasquerade. That was my job, toguide the masquerade and toguide the whole entourage downto the water and protect themasqueraders, the Egunguns,from being touched. This picturehere, when I look at it, it justbrings back very, very goodmemories because I used to godown all the time. And this issomething that ODUNDE alwaysrepresents. I think this picturewas probably back in ‘89, ‘90because, of course, I helped makethe costumes. That used to besomething I had to do all thetime, in order to keep it up.

I’ve been going to ODUNDE forabout 20 years. Kulu Mele usedto open. And the Ishangi familyused to close. Faithfully for about10 years. Strong.

I used to watch Mama Dottie.That was my thing. After wefinished with the Egungun, then Iused to watch Mama Dottie. Iused to watch Kulu Meleperform, Dottie and Wilkie andeverybody. I used to think,“Hmm, I like that group, I like thatgroup.” Then my father’d say,“They’re good people.” And I’dsay, “Yeah, I know. Yeah I know.” Now, I’ve been with Kulu Meleabout 10 years. For a while I wasworking with Kulu Mele, and then

2006 Spring WIP 23

working with my father too. I didn’t know. It was kind ofhard to figure out which wayto go. So I had to balancethem even. Then in order tokeep it up, I said, “What’sthere to do but go and joinKulu Mele?”

Shineka D.Crawford: A lesson learned (a true story)

It was 1993 or 1994 when myfather Irvin Lloyd II had twoimportant things to tell me. Hewanted to lighten the moodand ODUNDE was coming up.He asked me to go with himto ODUNDE. “A what day?”was what I said. But I agreed.The day we were to go, I puton my tightest outfit, thehighest heels, and made sureI put in a weave down to mybutt. We met at mygrandfather’s house in North

Philly and he said, “Shineka,you can’t wear those heels toODUNDE because we will bewalking a lot.” I still wore myheels. When we got there Iwas disappointed at first. Ididn’t care about my heritageat that time in my life. I wasconsidered a “hoochiemama.” My dad showed mewomen with head-wraps andlong frilly dresses and told meI should try it out. He told me Ineed to find myself before hedies. And then he told me hewas diagnosed with full-blown AIDS. He told me hedidn’t know if it was from pastdrug use or sleeping with somany women unprotected orboth. My dad told me I was aqueen and I laughed so hard.Then he told me I was smartand my beauty wasn’tbetween my legs. He told memy weave was horsehair andit was time for me to get mylife together. I rolled my eyes

(but not so he could see me).He started pointing at womensaying they looked good. Mycomment was, “Daddy, weain’t from Africa, thosewomen need perms and it’stoo hot for all those clothes.” Itold my dad that they couldnever get a man looking likethat. A year later, he died. Hewas always my best friend. Ireally didn’t understand whathe was talking about until twoyears ago. Now, with locks inmy hair and a new style ofdress, I am the Queen healways said I was. The poetryI have written since 16 nowhas more significance thanbefore, and I will be attendingODUNDE for the first timesince me and my dad had that talk.

Masked men of Cambodia/continued from p. 7

stories for pictures/continued from p. 22

from the Reamker.In 2004, they created an

evening-length work of anexcerpt never emphasized intheir repertoire before, one inwhich Preah Ream iskidnapped by the ogres, andthe monkeys have to traversethe sea, encountering dancingsea horses and crabs alongthe way. This piece is called“Veyreap’s Battle.” In early2006, they premiered what they are calling“contemporary khol” in which “monkeys” and“ogres” performed a site-specific work, first outdoors,on a dirt path and in a treebehind the practice hall of theBassac Theatre—a once-glorious edifice that wasgutted by fire in 1994—andthen inside the tatteredpractice hall. As opposed totraditional lakhon khol inwhich everyone is maskedand costumed in elaboratebrocades and sequined velvet,

this new version sawperformers in simple blacktee-shirts and loose trousers,with no masks. And thoughthis piece was loosely basedon a part of the Reamker, thereferences to a story line weresomewhat diffuse as the sixdancers played with the basicmovement vocabulary of thetradition, stretchingpossibilities as never donebefore.

Way back in the 1940s, theQueen made a radical changein the composition of theroyal/classical dance troupe.Being royal, nobodyquestioned her. Today inCambodia, debate is ragingover what can or should beallowed to “change,” andwhat needs to be preserved inthe realm of traditional arts,given the country’s extensivelegacy of loss. The dancersand musicians whochallenged the status quowith the new approach to

lakhon khol have been metwith a combination of delight(by some peers) andskepticism and criticism (bysome in positions ofadministrative authority in thearts.) These performersalready have plans, though,for what might come next.…

The Philadelphia FolkloreProject will feature aperformance of lakhon khol byfive men (Tonara Hing,Sovanthy Meng, Thavro Phim,Ra Soeur, and Say Soeur), all ofwhom are graduates ofCambodia’s School of Fine Arts,in its May Dance Happens Hereweekend at the ArtsBank. These five were among the firstgeneration of artists trainedafter the fall of the KhmerRouge. Specializing in monkeyor ogre roles, each has touredinternationally as a dancer. Allare now resident in the U.S. The PFP program is supportedby Dance Advance, NEA, PCA,and PFP members.

24 WIP 2006 Spring

dancing the monkey role/continued from p. 9

repertoires, guided by the elderartists who had survived suchgreat loss.

Cambodia has a number of forms of dance, some village-based, some with ritualsignificance, and others for fun ortheatrical entertainment. Severalof these dance forms are taughtat the Fine Arts institution,including classical (or court)dance, masked dance-drama, andfolk dance. After graduating, Itaught dance (the monkey role inboth the masked dance-dramaand classical forms, and folkdance) at the University until Imoved to the United States in1993. As a dancer in Cambodia, Istudied under the finest teachers,Yith Sarin, Keo Malis, Ngim Sorn,and toured Cambodia and theUnited States.

In the U.S., I have taughtCambodian dance in Ithaca, NewYork, San Jose, California, andFall River, Massachusetts, andhave just started teaching in anafter-school program at John H.Taggart School in Philadelphia, inpreparation for Cambodian New Year.

In 2001 I performed maskeddance (called lakhon khol) withformer colleagues at a conferenceon Buddhism at the University ofMichigan. Also in that year Iperformed with my former troupe when the dancers from the RoyalUniversity of Fine Arts toured theU.S. and asked me to join them intheir show at Zellerbach Hall inBerkeley, California. Since moving to Philadelphia in 2002, I havebeen a teaching consultant to aCambodian dance troupe in FallRiver, Massachusetts. This spring

(2006) I will perform at the ArtsBank in a special show withformer Cambodian dancecolleagues who now live inMinnesota.

Though my art is considered “traditional,” it must remaindynamic. (Its dynamism andadaptability have helped itsurvive that history of war and revolution mentioned earlier.) Over the years here in theU.S., I have been the artisticdirector of several Cambodiandance performances for which Ihelped to re-stage sometraditional pieces, and even re-choreograph some. I practiceconstantly on my own, and withcolleagues (in Massachusetts, forexample), whenever I can. I havebeen back to Cambodia a coupleof times. During those extendedvisits, I worked with dancers

(my teachers, colleagues, andstudents) at the Royal Universityof Fine Arts on techniquedevelopment and ondocumentation projects. I alsoworked with a U.S.-basedfilmmaker to produce adocumentary film on Cambodiandance, “Dancing Through Death:The Monkey, Magic and Madnessof Cambodia,” that has beenshown on public televisionstations across the U.S.

Since I’ve been in the U.S., I’vestudied and performed Westernmodern dance as well. Andthough I love it, my main passionis for the Cambodian performingarts. These arts have aesthetic,spiritual, and historical pulls forme. As a dancer of the monkeyrole, I feel best when I am bothenergized and exhausted underthat mask, performing

movements and gestures that areboth graceful and acrobatic, thatcome from the martial arts aswell as from court and templedance. This is my way ofcontributing to the telling ofstories that teach about myth,history, and social relations. Thisis my way of contributing to thecontinuation and regeneration ofCambodian culture.

“Since I’ve been in the U.S., I’ve studied and performed Western modern dance as well. And though I love it, my main passion is for theCambodian performing arts.” —Thavro Phim

2006 Spring WIP 25

It was time for me to findanother job. The company wasalso having financial difficulty.One day, we found out that weno longer had health insurancebecause the company could nolonger afford the premiums. Forweeks, on the day before paydaythe brothers would call ameeting and ask who of us couldafford to go without a paycheckfor a week. A couple of theoldtimers whose families weregrown would volunteer. Whenfree coffee was the only item lefton the benefit sheet we had beengiven when we were hired, I tooka day off to apply for a job at anarea company. I had interviewedthere before. This time, I washired into their tool and die shop.I found myself working withsome former GE employees whohad also applied after we were alllaid off. Although these men hadless experience than I, they werethe ones hired three long yearsbefore. I was shocked. I wasindignant. And damned happy tohave a job, benefits, and unionrepresentation.

DRILL PRESS TO MACHINISTI sat bolt upright. Either a few ofthe hairs that refused to bepulled back into my shortponytail were being drawn intothe RPMs of the drill pressspindle, or the punchline ofJayne’s “Duke the Dog” joke hadwoken me up. Three hours ofdrilling the same holes in twohundred and fifty identicalmachined parts was putting meto sleep. Again this morning thethree of us were lined up at thebank of drill presses next to thewindows on the north side of thebuilding. The radiators werecomplaining and it was snowingoutside. After the first week ofsitting beside each other drillingparts, we had agreed that everyday each of us would come towork with at least one joke to tell.That way our heads would notget wrapped around the spindleswhen we were lulled to sleep bythe repetitiveness of the job. Of

the many horror stories ofmachine shop accidents that themen were driven to tell us, onewas of a young man who hadhad part of his scalp ripped fromhis head when his ponytail gotcaught up in the rotation of thedrill press spindle. The visuals ofthis event were in my brain to stay.

It was after Paulette’s secondfailed punchline that Stan, ourdrill instructor boss, walked upbehind me. “I need you in thepaint shop. We have parts pilingup that need to be masked.” Ihad been hired in October. It wasnow January. I had spent threemonths attempting to work myway from the back-roomassembly area to the shop floor. Iknew that if I went to the paintshop, it would take me threemore months to get back to thedrill press area, which wasdefinitely “the shop floor.” To meit represented the first step tobecoming a machinist. “Are youtelling me to go or are youasking me to go as a favor?” AndI knew as I said this that I haddeclared war. I was going to fight for the ground I had gained. Theunion contract stated clearly thatworkers were not allowed towork outside their jobclassification. And the jobdescription of a machineoperator did not include maskingparts to prepare them for thepainters to spray-paint them. Myquestion took him off guard. Hesputtered, “I’m asking you!”

“Then, no, I won’t go back tothe paint shop,” I said.

He scowled, whirled around,and retreated. My stomach wasknotted, but I went back todrilling my parts, waiting for theinevitable punishment for myinsubordination. I had just toldJayne what had happened whenthe boss came back. With a smirkhe said, “Report to the shears.Bob has a job for you.” I stoodup and turned off my machine.“See you at lunch,” I said toJayne as I picked up my chuckkey, my drift, and my mics and

headed for the toolbox, whichwas on the end of my lead man’sbench.

I still didn't have my ownbench for my tools, but Georgehad allowed me to put my smallbox on the end of his bench,which was by the windows at theend of the drill press aisle. As Iheaded toward him I saw himflinch as he poured alcohol out ofhis squirt bottle onto theupturned palm of his hand. Weused alcohol as a lubricant whendrilling aluminum parts. He hadbeen drilling a three-quarter-inchhole through a one-inch-thickpiece of cold rolled steel. As heworked on this jig for a rush jobthat was supposed to hit himafter lunch, a hot, blue, spiralchip had curled out of the hole,caught on the spindle, and spunaround at about 400 RPMs. Andhe had done what he hadwarned me not to do: “Nowdon’t be stupid and try to cleanthe chips from the spindle whileit’s running. They can slice you tothe bone.” I had felt a shiver gothrough my spine when he saidthis. I felt the same chill as I sawthe slice on the palm of his hand.His jaws were clenched as hewrapped his hand with maskingtape. Of course, going to thedispensary in the next buildingmeant losing at least 45minutes—and then the hot job hewas getting after lunch would notget done on time. Thus the quickfix on damaged body parts withthe help of masking tape—amust in the machinist’s personalfirst aid kit.

“What happened down there?”He gestured with his clenchedjaw to the row of spindles I hadbeen working at.

“Stan wanted to send me backto the paint shop to mask parts.”

“Yeah?”“I asked him if he was telling

me or asking me to go.”“Yeah?”“Well, it’s outside my job

description and I knew it would

stories from the shop floor/continued from p. 19

[Continued on p. 26 Ý ]

26 WIP 2006 Spring

take me weeks to get back on the floor.”

“Yeah?”“He said he was asking me as a

favor, so I said no.”George looked at me with his

steel blue eyes, then down at his hand, and with lips curledbetween a wince and asmile, “So?”

“He told me to see Bob, that hehad a job for me on the shears.”

“Be careful. I know that job. It’s aheavy one—cold rolled slats aboutfive feet long, eighth of an inchthick. You’ll have to trim them tosize. Get some leather work glovesfrom the crib. So he put Jaynie inthe paint shop?

“I guess.”“How the hell does he expect

me to get these jobs done withouthelp?” He jammed his hand in thedirection of the rack of jobs. Then,lifting the small cardboard parts-box he had on the radiator behindhis toolbox, he felt the now-exposed hot-dog-on-a-bun withhis good hand. “Damn dog’s stillcold.” Lunch was in ten minutes.“Well, see Bob now, he’ll probablystart you after lunch. Don’t kill

yourself.”By the end of that day I was

physically exhausted, but I hadfound a rhythm to the job: Pick upa length of five-foot steel from thepallet beside the shear. Slap it uptight to the left-hand guide. Slide ita couple of inches under the shearblade. Hold the piece down and against the side guide. Stepon the trip bar with your right foot.Wait to hear the “chunk” of theblade and the clang of the trimhitting the metal catch-all basket inthe back of the shear. Still holdingthe now-squared strip, slide itfarther under the blade until youfeel it contact the break stop that’sbeen pre-set to the desired length.Step on the trip bar again withyour right foot. (Balance isimportant.) And one finished piecehits the pan with a clamor. Tossthe scrap that’s left in your handsinto the scrap bin to your right.Begin the process again. So—swing back around, bend down,pick up the next five-foot piecefrom the pallet. When the counteron the front of the shear registerstwenty, go to the back of the shearand stack the finished pieces fromthe pan onto a pallet. So the waltz

of my day was: Bend, grab, turn—slap, slide, step—chunk, clamor,slide—step, toss, turn. One moretime. And again, and again, andagain…

Although I was exhausted,finding the rhythm of the job wasfun. Maintaining it was a dance.And it was the dance that helpedme survive the monotony. Threedays and many pallets later, I feltlike one of the marathon dancersof the 1930s. But my punishmenthad been my success. I hadlearned the basics of anothermachine. After that I was neveragain asked to mask parts in thepaint shop. Instead, I got a newboss who instructed my new leadman to set up jobs for me on thehorizontal milling machine. I hadbecome a horizontal mill operator.

—Suzanne Povse

stories from the shop floor/continued from p. 25

TThhuurrssddaayy,, JJuunnee 88,, 22000066

66 -- 99 ppmmThe Annenberg Center

3680 Walnut Street, PhiladelphiaAWARDS HONORING

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Reception with light food & information tables.

To Purchase Tickets, Sponsorships, or Ads:

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2006 Spring WIP 27

G R A P H I C D E S I G N / A D V E R T I S I N G

M U L T I M E D I A / P U B L I C A T I O N S / W E B D E S I G N

I F E d es ign s+ A S S O C I A T E S

Call 215.848.4499 or email us at info@ifedesigns.com/www.ifedesigns.com

vision+creativity+service

>grants workshopsMay 13: SUMMER GRANT DEADLINESJune 10: FELLOWSHIPS/APPRENTICESHIPSHelp for folk arts projects. 10-Noon. Call to register.

>artist salonsMay 6: SUZANNE POVSE: 10 AMJune11: JOE TAYOUN: 3 PM

>f irst saturdaysMay 6 & June 3: STOP IN AND VISIT(10 AM - 1 PM)

>exhibit ionsFirst Saturdays & by appointmentIF THESE WALLS COULD TALK: THE BILL &

MIRIAM CRAWFORD DINING ROOM. Four walls

collaged with decades of social change memorabilia: an

installation of folk art and social history.

COMMUNITY FABRIC. An exhibition of textile

traditions by 19 diverse artists: different takes on tradition.

>dance happens hereMay 26-27, 2006 DANCE HAPPENS HERE:performances & master classes with stellar artists

Germaine Ingram (tap dance), Kulu Mele African

American Dance Ensemble (West African dance),

Thavro Phim and Amatak (Cambodian all-male

masked dance-drama).

EVENING PERFORMANCES: 2 nights (Friday

and Saturday) @ 7:30: $10 (Get tickets online at

www.folkloreproject.org or with check by mail to PFP,

735 S. 50th St., Phila., PA 19143)FREE MASTER CLASSES on Saturday 5/27:>11 AM - 12:30 PM: Cambodian masked dance(Thavro Phim & Amatak)>11:15 AM - 12:30 PM: Tap dance (GermaineIngram)>1 - 2:30 PM: West African dance (Kulu Mele)

WANT TO HELP? WANT TO LEARN MORE?

For details, or to volunteer (we can use your help!), visit

www.folkloreproject.org, or give us a call us at 215.726.1106.

2006pfp•calendar

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about the philadelphia folkloreprojectFolklore means something different to everyone—as it should, since it is oneof the chief means we have to represent our own realities in the face ofpowerful institutions.Here at the PFP,we’re committed to paying attention tothe experiences & traditions of “ordinary”people.We’re a 19-year-old publicinterest folklife agency that documents, supports & presents local folk arts andculture.We offer exhibitions,concerts,workshops & assistance to artists andcommunities.We conduct ongoing field research,organize around issues ofconcern,maintain an archive,& issue publications and media. Our workcomes out of our mission: we affirm the human right to meaningful cultural &artistic expression,& work to protect the rights of people to know & practicetraditional community-based arts.We work to build critical folk culturalknowledge, respect the complex folk & traditional arts of our region,&challenge processes & practices that diminish these local grassroots arts &humanities.We urge you to join—or to call to learn more (215-726-1106).

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