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Article
July 23, 1982

Clogging and the Cultural Enrichment Program

JAMA. 1982;248(4):403. doi:10.1001/jama.1982.03330040003002
Abstract

When I was 16 years old, I went to a mountain folk and music festival in Asheville, NC. There, I saw and heard people clog for the first time. I was enthralled. I have never been witness to anything I couldn't do that I wanted to do so badly. I returned home to Smyrna, Ga, where it seemed that no one knew anything about clogging. I was determined to learn, even though I didn't know the first step. I bought a record that I thought had the right beat—"Toot-Toot-Tootsie, Goodbye." I stomped and jumped around in time to the music, but I definitely was not clogging. Summer was almost gone and I had made no progress. My mother and father were talking about me in subdued voices. "Toot-Toot-Tootsie, Goodbye" was scratched and warped. Then suddenly one day it clicked. I have never been happier. I went back to Asheville knowing

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