I want to map a revolution. Although I was not yet conscious of it, I began mapping this revolution in fourth grade by playing a musical instrument: percussion. When I began, I had no idea that I would neither meet, nor personally play with any black women percussionists. Nor was I aware that there were no black women in any major symphony orchestras across the nation. By entering into a field that many blacks, especially black women, are not a part of, I found myself carving a new path for others. Throughout the duration of high school and my first two years at the Manhattan School of Music, I had one aim: to play in a major symphony orchestra. The Atlanta Symphony Orchestra, through their Talent Development Program—a program specifically structured to train minority musicians in order to boost representation of Blacks and Latinos in major symphony orchestras around the world—provided me with a rigorous and unforgiving program; unforgiving because when I made the decision to transfer from the conservatory in New York to Spelman College in 2008, eight years of closely guided nurturing and support suddenly vanished into thin air. The principal percussionist of the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra—my teacher, my mentor, my friend, my confidant, my muse, my parent—immediately severed all communication with me. Even my family and some close family friends displayed overwhelming disappointment. I was alone. Or I felt alone. The only black woman in my incoming class at the Manhattan School of Music, I already felt the struggle to fully realize the intersection of my musical and personal direction amongst souls who had no experiences comparable or relatable to my own. But after moving back to Atlanta, New York’s singular and taxing journey waxed fairer in comparison. Musically excommunicated from a network that I personally crafted over several relentless years, I felt discouraged to even continue pursuing what I know I was sent to this earth to do.
After soloing with the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra at age 15, I belonged (or so I thought). My obvious differences from those around me, mainly white men, seemed to no longer alienate me. The young white boys who I played with in the Atlanta Symphony Youth Orchestra, the World Youth Symphony Orchestra, and in various other ensembles, who never hid their disdain for me as a black, female section leader suddenly feigned respect and even forged inclusion. And while I still faced unwarranted hostility, most likely derived from their usual sense of elitism, my talent and abilities could no longer be doubted or denied. But it was not until I sat in a concert given by the principal percussionist of the ASO just a few months ago that I realized how much I never was or could be “one of them.”
Sitting at the concert, watching him live his life right before my eyes, I found myself choking for air. I felt so anxious I could not sit still. I paced back and forth in the back of the room trying to pacify my emotions in an attempt to absorb and partake in the music and the musicianship fertilizing before me. But no matter how hard I tried I could not swallow the hurt and the pain, the dismissal and the betrayal, the callousness and the coldness of my teacher’s heart—the same heart that, once upon a time, provided me with so much warmth, encouragement and acceptance. During this private panic attack, it dawned on me: I was a thing; a pet. It was something I remember hearing my mother say, but could not bring myself to understand what it meant until I lived through it. “White people will sometimes adopt black people as pets, sort of like a project that may or may not be more for their own benefits than for yours,” was something like what my mother said. The conversation being had I do not recall, but her statement rung in my ears until its meaning was realized as a lived experience. My most sensitive asset became a mark for exploitation. All over the nation my teacher was well known by the most accomplished and influential percussionists largely because I travelled extensively, studying with and playing for his colleagues. As a black female amidst hundreds of white, mostly male students, I could not be forgotten. My teacher became somewhat of an icon as he reared up an achieved and well-known young, black and woman percussionist. As I increasingly embodied the musician that my teacher envisioned crafting, I became less and less a human being until I merely resembled a product in a thriving market. And with my most sensitive assets up for sale, my womanhood and my blackness became his most valuable exploit.
As I map my revolution and forge a miraculous evolution, I not only remember, but I cherish who I am and vow never to sacrifice my personhood again. The crushing nature of patriarchy, supremacy, capitalism, racism, sexism, classism, heterosexism, and every other diabolical force exists in all (dimly lit) corners of existence, music not excluded. My revolution in and of itself is a spotlight; exposing, questioning, confronting, scrutinizing, ostracizing, and ultimately eradicating the evils of the orchestral world and beyond.
I accomplish my truth by creating, sharing and spreading the magnanimous power that music possesses in its ability to touch the hearts and souls that connect with all the beauty that it has to offer. As I emanate this beauty, my revolution will offset and increasingly do away with the racist, sexist, supremacist and elitist corruption that taints the transformative impact that classical music can have on minority musicians around the nation. Against all odds and staggering statistics, with the help of the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra’s Talent Development Program, my family thrived, shattering barriers surrounding a profession that remains out of reach and in some cases off limits to women of color and minority musicians. Music as a tool for social change and spiritual liberation is my purpose, my vision, my revolution.
“separate but equal”
Look: Evolve 