As an African American scholar in the academy, I have been negotiating traffic at a busy intersection for the last twenty-five years. For me, race, gender, class, disability, sexuality, and a range of categories of social difference have not been faddish, fast-moving sports cars on an academic highway. Rather, they have been the permanent routes, however fluid and contested, that I have chosen to pursue. As if traveling the routes of social difference were not enough, I have followed an itinerary that has been further complicated by a joint appointment in English and Women's Studies, as well as courtesy appointments in the Departments of African American and African Studies, Comparative Studies, The Center for Law, Policy and Social Science, and the Center for Folklore Studies. This type of interdisciplinarity and intersectionality has demanded that I have a clear sense of methodologies and theoretical frameworks for my research. Confronting promotion and tenure committees with anything less than knowing what I am doing and how I am doing it would have left me as roadkill on academe's outer belt- never arriving close enough to its city of power to make any difference. So, I have been strategic about my analytical tools and the arguments that I have formulated that allow me to employ those tools. In Granny Midwives and Black Women Writers: Double-Dutched Readings, I demonstrate what it means to pursue research at the nexus of race, gender, culture, and class, and create an accommodating methodology. I began my research with the question: Why do the novels of so many contemporary African American women writers contain portraits of black lay midwives and women healers who are simultaneously constructed as obstetricians, chemists, rootworkers, and psychotherapists? In pursuing this question, I realized that I would have to study the historical lives of the many Southern, rural black women who during their heyday, the 1920s and '30s, numbered more than forty-three thousand and who, although described in some government publications as "uncompetent nigra women," in their own communities, "stood as tall as God" (Granny Midwives 6, 24, 88). I had decided to tell the historical grannies' stories in tandem with the fictional representations of their stories. However, my first roadblock was that at the time that I was researching my book, no one had written about the lives of the black lay midwives. There was one book on one particular granny midwife,1 but there were no collected histories of their lives. I could not believe that these women, who had delivered thousands of black and white babies, who birthed and healed a nation, had not commanded scholarly attention. How was I to do what I wanted to do with the literature when the history was not there? Scholars of color in the academy often must first fill vacuums before they can do their work. Although I had not originally planned to do all the archival and ethnographic work, I had to do it. If there was "no there there," as Gertrude Stein would say, then I had to do the research that would validate the lives of the black lay midwives as a first step to understanding how their lives resonated with the literary characterizations of a long list of conjure women: Toni Morrison's Pilate (Song of Solomon) and Marie-Therese (Tar Baby); Gloria Naylor's Sapphira Wade and Mama Day (Mama Day); Toni Cade Bambara's Minnie Ramson (The Salt Eaters), Tina McElroy Ansa's Baby of the Family, selected Alice Walker's short stories, and many other authors and texts. I had to bring together the medical history, the cultural history, and the literary tradition in a way that my colleagues in the discipline of English would find credible and a way that I felt was culturally responsive to the material. My task was to talk about all of these sistah conjurers without sounding like a conjurewoman myself. For although I knew that the original meanings of conjure woman were closely associated with double-headed and double wisdom,2 and thus an empowering idiom for diasporic sisterly powers, I could not count on my colleagues to read conjure apart from its European inflected meanings of black witchcraft. Scholars of color in the academy are always suspect. I wanted a methodology that would fit my subject matter. It had to be a methodology that was grounded in multiplicities, able to accommodate my project's interdisciplinarity. It also had to be a methodology that was at ease with a culturally grounded text. I wanted to follow in the footsteps of African American scholars who were using indigenous metaphors for writing African American experiences: Elsa Barkley Brown's "quilting" of history; Henry Louis Gates Jr.'s "speakerley texts"; Mae Henderson's "speaking in tongues" trope, bell hooks and Cornel West's "breaking bread" metaphor. I wanted my methodology to travel to what Karla Holloway calls a "cultural mooring place" (Holloway 522). One day, while sitting at the kitchen table with a laptop, a PC, and a printer, I noticed my daughters in the driveway jumping double-dutch. As I watched the turning of multiple ropes, listened to their chanting of folk rhymes, and saw them negotiate space between the two ropes in front of a company of neighbors waiting their turn, I knew that I was witnessing the performance of my methodology. Here was an art form that was closely associated with the experiences of young black girls. In Granny Midwives, I transform jumping double-dutch into a practice of reading dual cultural performances, the performances of the historical grannies and the performances of the literary texts. Just as jumping double-dutch requires the jumpers to listen to the chanting and sound of the ropes, then multiply locate themselves between ropes, I ask my readers to hear the orality of the two sets of texts and multiply locate themselves between my narrative ropes (Granny Midwives 3). Jumping double-dutch is much harder than merely skipping rope. It requires a company, a community of jumpers. It is difficult to learn, for one must perform a set of verbally sung instructions while the two ropes are turning. Jumping in requires a number of false starts. Jumpers sway their bodies back and forth as they try to match the rhythm of the ropes. Building on double-dutch as a trope, I discuss the ropes of my analysis as an intertextual, interplay performed against a polyphonic range of black women's voices, providing the interdisciplinary freedom my work requires. Not having found a methodology that complemented my role as an "indigenous ethnographer," I risked creating one. One of the benefits of having done so is watching how others who practice women of color feminisms have made use of the model. Imagine my surprise when someone sent me a tape of a womanist theologian who spoke at a large convention and introduced her work as "double-dutched ministry," citing the work that I had done. In addition to the methodological work the historical recovery work has attracted an audience. Medical groups such as LaMaze International and Midwives Alliance of North America (MANA) have not asked me to speak at their national and/or regional conventions. Although I never planned to build bridges between medicine and literature, there was work that needed to be done, a gap that needed to be filled. Just as rewarding as academic and professional responses have been the responses from African American communities. Interdisciplinary work and methodologies that resonate with frameworks familiar to one's home community engage populations outside the academy. Perhaps it was the Varnette Honeywood picture of young people jumping double-dutch on the cover of Granny Midwives that caught the attention of the editors of the hip-hop magazine Vibe. In any event, in the special Notorious B.I.G. death keepsake issue there's a review of Granny Midwives as a text that does cultural work. The practice within my department is to place reviews on a bulletin board. Usually the reviews are from canonical, professionally approved journals. I had the pleasure of tacking on the wall the Vibe review, a review that placed Granny Midwives next to books with titles that usually do not grace the hollowed walls of academe: Tough Love: Cultural Criticism and Familial Observations on the Life and Death of Tupac Shakur and Fuck You Too, the Extras+More Scrapbook. Scholars of color in the academy often go where no one has gone before.