Personal Statement - Kennedy Tyson
We waited as a dim and calming azure blue light shone from above, illuminating gold fixtures
all around us. Conversations echoed throughout the room until the blue light dissipated and everything
went pitch Black. I sensed slight gusts of wind and shadowy figures lurking about, just before another
bright, White light appeared in front of us. As somber music bellowed, I watched a man and woman
rely on each other for support, epitomizing nature’s sublime balance between masculinity and
femininity and the human condition—from the deepest sorrows to the holiest joy. The lyrics Fix Me,
Jesus rumbled through the theater and permeated my soul, and I continued observing the Yin and
Yang before me that made the performance feel so whole.
I looked up at my mother, whose eyes were welling with tears. She looked back at me but
didn’t say anything, for we were both left speechless. On the car ride home, our silence persisted, until
she reminded me to thank my grandmother, Ganny, for the tickets to Alvin Ailey’s Revelations. Over
the years, I have come to the Revelation that the dancers’ personal and collective strength are
representative of how my grandmother has cultivated the spirit of an Alvin Ailey performance within
my family.
From carefully sewing ribbons onto my pointe shoes to picking me up from school and
taking me to rehearsals, Ganny has been a major source of stability. I recall the pungent smell of
collard greens lingered in the air, as I’d sit in the kitchen on Sundays as a young child while she
prepared dinner and tell me funny and serious stories alike, from calling her teacher “an old goat” and
sneaking out to parties to watching her little siblings and being the chapter head of her NAACP youth
group. For Ganny, patience was the only option. Through hearing these stories, I was taught about the
importance of resilience, patience, and reliability—three requisite ingredients for being a leader and
change agent.
Ganny’s lessons ultimately prepared me for high school, where I have been one of two
African American students in my entire grade. While accustomed to being the Black sheep, high
school marked the first time where I felt being Black was a disadvantage. After all, being told by a
peer that African Americans have nothing much to contribute to intellectual conversations, aside from
their knowledge of slavery, is one reason for feeling that way. Moreover, when trying to schedule a
guest speaker for Black History Month, receiving very little support from the school administration
made it increasingly obvious that I would struggle to find a balance of opportunity and perspective.
Nevertheless, reflecting on Ganny’s lessons made me persist. Even more, her lessons of strength and
grace made me leap towards opportunities, rather than jump away from them.
After years of gaining my footing, I’m now the current head of Black Student Caucus and a
member of my school’s first student-run diversity committee, mirroring Ganny’s involvement in her
NAACP chapter. As a peer mentor to underclassmen, I work to be a dependable person, similar to
Ganny being a reliable big sister. More broadly, I’ve served as a leader in choir, the school soccer
team, and even as a class representative for SGA. Along the way, I’ve had to be patient with reluctant
faculty members, classmates who lack exposure to diverse backgrounds and perspectives, and myself
when my life’s choreography doesn’t go as planned.
The morning of my last dance recital, I took a morning stroll to clear my head, though a
thunderstorm unfortunately greeted me—ruining my hair in the process. My mother furiously rushed
me to my grandmother, who was sitting in her wooden, generations-old chair—with a curling iron in
hand, ready to fix my hair. Once again, Ganny proved that real leaders—the best leaders—are always
there to provide stability. After all, as the age-old saying goes:
the show
must
go on.