To an artist.

When Langston wrote to me, I was nine. Hold fast to dreams, for if they die, life is a broken winged bird that cannot fly. Hold fast to dreams, for if they go, life is a barren field frozen with snow.

College was a distant landscape of opportunity. Out of reach. Impossible. Langston wrote to me in bold magic marker print on a cardstock poster on Mrs. Lynch’s classroom wall. You may carve a dream with an humble tool.

There were sacrifices, sleepless nights, cold sweats before the SATs, financial aid applications. These were my hopes on the cusp of hopelessness, accompanied unfailingly by countless moments of quiet terror playing out a life that ended up outside of my way out, my alternative.

Into that silence, Langston spoke.

What happens to a dream deferred?

I was certain it went somewhere, whether dried, festering or sweet. He was not my father, but I listened to his voice as dear counsel. The dream deferred explodes, he said, press on, press on.

He was not my mother, but he nurtured me up stairs with tacks and splinters and boards torn up. He told me that there were others still going, still climbing, when I was alone with a text book, a desk lamp, and my insecurities.

When Langston wrote to me, I was nine. Now I’m grown, and The Collected Poems, a gift from a graduate school mentor, often call to me from my bookshelf.

He's written them all, The Panther and the Lash, Shakespeare in Harlem, Fine Clothes to the Jew, but it's my letter that's dogeared. When the realities of childhood or the turning points of  adolescence would have claimed me, I go back to the simple rhythms first implanted in my soul.

Hold fast to dreams. The pulses that revived me when I might’ve given in.

Instead, I stood there and hollered, and I often stood there and cried, but I’ll be dogged, sweet baby, if he was gonna see me die.

When Langston wrote to me, I was nine. My life wasn't always beautiful, but it was worth loving and changing.

So thank you, Langston, who adopted his people's heartbreak to birth them blues, who adopted a little girl’s sacred wishes and, in so doing, lifted them away from the too-rough fingers of the world.

Thank you to anyone who’s ever taught a child something that couldn’t be quantified.

Because when she’s grown, it may be an artist, never afraid to do what he must choose,
to whom she's writing back.

Thank you, family.

I stayed with a family led by a doctor and a nurse. I had lunch with their teenage daughter at a mall, and we talked about sororities. A decade prior, they had been in Uganda, exiled while their countrymen and women were exterminated in one of the worst human rights atrocities and social failings of the 20th century. They survived and served their people. I want to thank them, Global Youth Connect, my beloved friends made in Kigali, and the people of Rwanda for helping me to never forget that we are connected, we are here to love one another, and we will never let this happen again.

As I pretend to endeavor to get back into running

All of these resonate during my most literal trips down memory lane.

Just for one day

"I'll never forget that. It was one of the most emotional performances I've ever done. I was in tears. They'd backed up the stage to the wall itself so that the wall was acting as our backdrop. We kind of heard that a few of the East Berliners might actually get the chance to hear the thing, but we didn't realize in what numbers they would. And there were thousands on the other side that had come close to the wall. So it was like a double concert where the wall was the division. And we would hear them cheering and singing along from the other side. God, even now I get choked up. It was breaking my heart. I'd never done anything like that in my life, and I guess I never will again. When we did 'Heroes' it really felt anthemic, almost like a prayer. However well we do it these days, it's almost like walking through it compared to that night, because it meant so much more. That's the town where it was written, and that's the particular situation that it was written about. It was just extraordinary. We did it in Berlin last year as well – 'Heroes' – and there's no other city I can do that song in now that comes close to how it's received. This time, what was so fantastic is that the audience – it was the Max Schmeling Hall, which holds about 10-15,000 – half the audience had been in East Berlin that time way before. So now I was face-to-face with the people I had been singing it to all those years ago. And we were all singing it together. Again, it was powerful. Things like that really give you a sense of what performance can do. They happen so rarely at that kind of magnitude. Most nights I find very enjoyable. These days, I really enjoy performing. But something like that doesn't come along very often, and when it does, you kind of think, 'Well, if I never do anything again, it won't matter.'"

- David Bowie, on Heroes

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tgcc5V9Hu3g

Happy first day of the Boston Tea Party!

Despite the fact that I am rigorously preparing for competition, all I can think of when I anticipate dancing for another whole weekend straight is something that can be translated from my mind to yours as this:

http://www.superstarmagazine.com/this-guy-decided-to-dance-with-someone-on-the-street-what-happened-next-will-make-your-day/

No matter what you're doing in life, remember why you're doing it. In this guy's case, to interact with people, to see the city, and to dance.

What is it in your case? Why do the day to day things we all start to see as mundane? Why are we living life as we are, and can we take more joy in it than we have been?

Here's to a weekend of dance trials, memories, and spontaneous fun.

One more day until the Boston Tea Party

One more day until so much of this.

http://teapartyswings.com/

Look everywhere