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.