A slew of faces, both young and old, look toward the stage; they are present and alert. People from near and far occupy the seats of an auditorium that’s now reached capacity. Myriad generations have united to congregate in the Muriel Kauffman Theatre. The awaiting individuals are silent. They’ve anticipated this; they’ve looked forward to the welcomed return of the repertory—a troupe many have not seen in six years. For some, this moment marks the first time their eyes will witness the elaborate production. It is a new experience for many of the little faces that are sprinkled through the crowd. Unsure of what to expect, their bodies jitter in their seats. Their boisterous spirits can no longer be tamed following the ballet’s intermission. Their young ears have heard the whispers; they’re ready for a riveting experience. With dimming house lights, breaths are held in the pitch-black auditorium, and a haze of heaviness looms. The heaviness is not adverse, but it is a feeling that evokes a sense of pride. It is a sensation too substantial, too great to hold within the core of one’s body. Little ones can sense it. It’s challenging to verbally describe this “it” that is bubbling inside of them, but something is there. They know it. They feel it. Elders who are many years their senior don’t bother to explain. Perhaps the commute home will suffice. Maybe then, they will state the historical importance of what they’ll soon witness, but for the time being, they don’t care to speak. Frankly, they don’t need to. It will take time for the youngsters to grasp what so many have revered. As for the ones who these children are descendants of, they don’t need a contextual analysis. They’ve lived it. They’ve been on this here earth, this side of heaven, long enough to know the magnitude of that “it” those innocent babes feel in their bodies.

Formerly the very children seated beside them, they too, experienced a time of feeling that “it.” They’d never felt that “something,” that “it” in their spirit, until the life-changing moment when they did. Now with grayed manes, delicate hands boasting years of labor, wisdom for forthcoming generations, and wherewithal, the babes birthed from their lineage—with their sparkling eyes and a curious demeanor—will visually behold a piece of their ancestral history: a history that is, plausibly, too rich for their developing minds to comprehend but will never forget. One kiddo is intrigued and with a turn of the head, is now concerned about the tears resting on the lashes of a grandparent. Amid a soothing pat to their elder, they are hushed. That feeling, that “it,” will have to be explained later. Heavy curtains vertically part to acknowledge the bodies that are positioned center stage. The “oohs” from vocalists, their tone opulent and engaging, mark the introduction of a Negro spiritual, setting the atmosphere for an emotional journey its patrons will embark on. Spectators remain mute; their countenance is unreadable, but their backs are straightened. Their posture insinuates a stature of dignity and esteem.

Though not a child, this is my first time seeing this particular company live, and I can hardly mask my current state of bliss. In a moment of observance, a young girl and I have that—the inability to hide our enjoyment—in common. The vocal instruments of sopranos float over a cappella tenors and baritones to usher in Hall Johnson’s acclaimed arrangement of “I Been ‘Buked.” My eyes bulge. Those lyrics—I’ve heard them before. As the daughter of a musician, I grew up hearing the likes of Aaron Neville, George Benson, and Norman Brown. I had illustrated books depicting the life of Duke Ellington, and I was a fan of Jeffrey Osborne by the time I was twelve. With a closer listen, I grin as wide as my mouth can spread. It’s an instantaneous reminder of Derek Lee Ragin and Moses Hogan’s rendition of the historically rich spiritual—a rendition I’ve heard and sung to myself many times over. Johnson’s composition—a nod to an iconic pillar’s upbringing in a Baptist congregation, and globally recognized since its 1960 inception—forces one to remain cognizant of those who’ve succumbed and perished for a fight we, their successors, now reap the benefits of.

From a single spotlight, the crowd witness a choreographed stance that has transformed the scope of modern dance for decades. Eyes glittering and speckled with captivation, little ones who inhabit grand tier seats are peering forward in an amused fashion. The audience watch lean limbs stretch toward the side. The dancers command one’s attention in a graceful manner—the hue of their garments are as brown as the bodies they drape from. Their arms are elevated, and their stance is wide. The heads of company members forming Alvin Ailey’s American Dance Theater, are tilted upward, and they stand with expanded bosoms and torsos. Their movements, meticulous and poise, begin to flow as free as the waters crossed by ancestors, they’d never met but know by name. Young children, our children, have piercing eyes and gaping mouths, in awe of the dancers’ limbs and their fluidity. They’d never seen visual artistry presented in such a manner, and yet, it feels eerily familiar. They aren’t acquainted with the movements they’re seeing, but something in them knows which way to move their right arm, and which way to move their left. Their little faces scrunch: they aren’t sure what to make of it. They are in wonder of the movements their bodies can, somehow, instinctively mimic. It’s innate. Their caregivers smile in response. The little ones don’t understand it, but their elders do. They know what becoming one with your roots looks like. They recall when they felt “it” for the first time. That “something”, stirrin’ in them bones. In a continuous motion, unified arms of the Ailey company stretch toward a ceiling that appears endless.

The task of explaining the rapid heartbeat in one’s bosom, or the lump in one’s throat would be grim. It’d be quite a feat finding an answer for the tears that rolled down the apples of cheeks. Millions have reveled the prearranged production; its title is fitting and suitable. It strums the chord of one’s emotions and unveil revelational truths. Gatherers are invited to be vulnerable and lean into recognizing the weary blues and the jubilant triumphs of an overcoming people. Tears are welcomed, encouraged even. This is a safe space. The azure and cobalt streams of silk ripple and flow in a staggered motion. It affords a serene backdrop to the trio who sway and thrust their bodies across the dancing fabric to the mental imagery of freedom: their Promised Land flowing with milk and honey. The trio, clothed in the purest white, lift and jerk their bodies with the presence of an extended parasol—its white, flowing edges imitate their cadence. Onlookers refuse to muffle their applause and praise, for they know what the rhythmic steps signify. They’ve heard and taught the stories—the waters God troubled and their ancestors who waded. They know the intimate lyrics of those spirituals and their grave value. Those spirituals are an eternal bridge from living vessels to those up yonder who’ve crossed to the other side. The remnants of those souls, those wading bodies, live through the ovation that filled the auditorium.

Those souls were reincarnated through living heirs: the ones who cleansed themselves by way of tears flowing down their faces. They breathed through the adolescents with silenced phones who didn’t bother checking its updates and truthfully, disregarded its mere existence. They live among us through a generation of children who gazed at the physiques of a male trio leap and extend their bodies in ways one would deem physically impossible. The adaptation of Howard A. Roberts’ “Sinner Man” is as breathtaking as the range of skill that is highlighted on center stage. Adorned with elegant picture hats and waving raffia fans, a man with a Cheshire smile doesn’t hide the enthusiasm of his claps. He sings along to “Rocka My Soul in the Bosom of Abraham” —another lyrical piece, which is beautiful and intricate, arranged by Roberts. He doesn’t cease until the final verse. He knows every word, and he’s externally proud. His outward expression of joy is almost pompous.

To be a fly on that wall, hearing how one would explain such a culturally rich event to their children. To be a listening ear, curious to learn how one would educate their offspring on the history of that production—a production rooted in cultural norms and customs that were spearheaded by our ancestors. The very ancestors whose names, stories, and dreams we, their progenies, still carry. The events that transpired were cathartic. In the wake of a stellar performance, the aforementioned occasion could indicate nothing more than an evening spent at the Kauffman Center for the Performing Arts, but to a nearby couple with intertwined fingers—a position they held for the duration of the evening—it might have been more noteworthy than another weekend outing. For the woman who stood with streaming tears, it may have meant something more. That appeared to be the case for many. It surely was for me.