- Black keys.

The evolution of the black classical arts was made possible by Herbert Simon Family Foundation, a Challenge America grant from the National Endowment for the Arts, Dr. Christian Wolf and Elaine Holden Wolf.

Additional funding provided by Glick Philanthropies and an Arts Midwest gig grant and the following, - This is a story unlike any other story.

There is no back in the day because this story starts before there even was a day.

There is no time to once upon because this story starts before time.

This story starts with nothing.

This story starts from nothing, nothing but a vast and empty vacuum of space consumed and draped in darkness, void of light essence, and aesthetic.

And then there's a spark, a flash, a bang, or perhaps the snap of the divine fingertips.

And in its wake, there is a pulse and a sweeping cosmic current that contains all the universes and all of the cosmos full of all the matter that is ever going to matter for us to use and reuse, for us to create and recreate.

And that ladies and gentlemen, theys and thems, strangers and friends, is where our story begins from out of the silence.

And so our stage is set from the darkness, the crushing void and empty nothingness of space to a universe full of energy with blistering molten rock bumping and careening against each other for billions upon billions of years until we find ourselves in our own solar system where the molten rock has cooled and the liquid water has formed, and it's in these cooling shallow mystic pools that we discover.

Life has appeared.

Simple life that will serve as the building blocks of essence and aesthetic, an aesthetic that will grow and expand, much like the evolving rivers, lakes, and oceans that will become inhabited and burst forth full of promise and possibility.

A river spring of our being.

- Woo.

- The exuberance of life is here.

From the birds of the air, the fish in the sea, to the beasts of the field.

Life, essence, our natural aesthetic continues to evolve from the cosmic space, dust of our cultural origins.

Over the billions of years of development, we find ourselves in the cradle of civilization, Africa.

And it is here that we appear human kind.

Here that we develop thought, language, movement, nuance, and our unique sense of selves in our majestic relationship with nature each other and our creator With thought and language developed.

We offer our cultural contributions over the centuries, influencing and reflecting the philosophies of the enlightenment in the spirit of order, reason, and balance, a perfect trifecta of excellence, refinement, and unapologetic regalia.

Our journey takes us to the small island of Guadalupe and the French West Indies.

And it's here that we celebrate the birth of composer Joseph Ballone, the Chevalier de Saint-George.

Our cultural journey takes us from the island of Guadalupe to the coastal waters and ports of the United States.

Albeit brought against our will, losing some because they chose the sea instead.

Human pawns in the global slave trade, we set out on an unwilling journey that will forever shape the trajectory of the new world.

Stripped of our native tongues.

Robbed of our cultural identity, yet bringing with us our hopes and dreams for freedom, liberty, and the sovereign right for all humanity.

Building upon our creative aesthetic, from the cosmos to the waters of life, to the cradle of civilization, we advance in this journey and venture across the globe, spreading our cultural essence from continent to continent, from deserted plantation to deserted plantation.

- Walk - With - Me - Lord Walk with me.

Walk with me Lord.

Walk with me.

While I'm on this tedious journey.

I need - You.

- Lord, to walk with me.

While I walk this tedious journey, I - Need you Lord to walk with me.

While I walk this tedious journey, I - Need you - Lord - To walk - with me.

- Walk with me - Walk with me, - walk - with - me.

- And yet, in the face of oppression, struggle, and toil, we find in our walk with the divine, a rhythm and a dance that echoes the ancestral cadence and syncopations of our homelands.

A reason for hope and unbridled joy that only bondage can elicit a reason for laughter and levity.

A people brought against their will, building a new empire upon their backs.

A people who continue to birth, warriors and peacemakers, preachers and teachers faced with cruel circumstances stretched in length, century after century after century.

With each century, there is a voice of persistence, a voice of survival, defiance and rebellion.

These are the voices that have kept us firmly rooted, despite callous efforts to destroy and upend our righteous and cosmic place.

These are the voices of Aunt Sarah Safronia, Sweet Thing and Peaches.

These are four women, undeterred and the reclamation of our sovereignty.

- My skin is black, - My arms alone My hair is woolly, my back is strong, strong enough to take the pain inflicted again and again and again.

What do they call me?

My name is Aunt Sarah.

My name is Aunt Sarah.

My skin is yellow.

My hair is long Between two worlds I do belong.

My father was rich and white.

He forced my mother late one night What do they call me?

my name - Is - Safronia My name is Safronia.

My skin is tan.

My hair is fine my hips.

Invite you My mouth like wine Whose little girl am I?

Anyone.

Anyone.

With money to buy What do they call me?

My name is Sweet Thing My name is Sweet Thing My skin is brown.

My manner is tough.

See, I kill the first mother.

I see My life has been rough I'm awfully bitter these days because my parents were slaves what do they call me?

Aunt Sarah?

What do they call me?

Saffronia What do they call me?

Sweet Thing What do they call me?

My name is Peaches - We hope.

We dream.

We envision the things that make a person and a culture full of life and joy.

Flinging our arms wide, embracing the sun and clinging to the notion that we too sing America.

We too sing of freedom and equality To fling my arms open wide in some place in the sun, To whirl and to dance till the white day is done Then rest at cool evening beneath a tall tree While night comes on gently dark like me That is my dream.

To fling my arms wide in the face of the sun Dance!

- Whirl!

Whirl till the quick day is done Rest at pale evening a tall, slim tree.

Night coming tenderly, Black like me.

Night coming tenderly, - Black - Like me.

- We've traced our existence from the dawn of the cosmos to the building.

Blocks of life celebrated the philosophy of order, reason, and balance.

We've documented the individual stories of our women who have birthed the champions of culture and reformation.

We've dreamed of a life with joy and freedom.

And through this journey, we advance our aesthetic and cultural prowess looking ever forward, always noting that blackness is a miracle - On the day that the mirror opens to light without shame, and we see that blackness is a miracle, we will finally fortune to see our real beauty.

Dark satin cloth wrapped around robust winding bones, curving mountains into whispering echoes of gazelles upon galloping plains, gold cobbled rivers, deep throated songs singing to our ancient, our prayers of overcame on the day that the mirror opens to light without shame.

And we see that blackness is a miracle, we will then shed the lies that confound the taste of our skin, like scattered dust on the hands of eulogized and priests.

We collect ourselves again in our own paws, retelling our history to ourselves like sacred psalms, while we die to convict prisons and burn the liturgies of who they told us we were on the day that the mirror opens to light without shame.

And we see that blackness is a miracle, that blackness is a miracle.

We speak our real names.

We stretch our mother's wounds to rule the belief of this holy lineage upon which we descended.

We name ourselves, queen and anoints our own kings, passage ourselves with pierced dotted noses, roped colored links and diamond studded teeth tracing our wounded feet.

Backbone upon backbone.

Backbone upon backbone, hip bone to hip bone, chain necked un-noosed, amethyst lips, bleeding truth that from the impossibilities behind us, we say no more forward from the day that the mirror opens to light without shame.

And we see that blackness is a miracle, that blackness is a miracle, that blackness is a miracle.

Our fathers will provide feasts for their daughters, will celebrate sweet sixteens with images of kinky hair and decor of large lips and broad hips.

And our daughters will no longer see themselves as an anomaly, as opposite, as comparable, as other than, no, we are what we are.

We are who we are.

EHYAH ASHER EHYEH EHYAH ASHER EHYEH Black born unto black, like soil, like dust, like earth, like clay, like everything the universe is made of, like God speaking to dark matter on that first day.

So there was always black first And everything, everything, everything, everything else.

It's just a shadow.

A shadow of that miracle.

- This has been a story unlike any other story, A story divined by the creator and the cosmos.

A story told, using black keys, detailing the evolutionary notes of culture, craft, and creation.

A story that has inspired generation upon generation of kings, queens, and human beings giving homage and honor to where we've been.

So the torch can be passed to generations.

Upon generations we will never meet.

A story that is meant to be told, retold, cast, and recast until time comes to an end.

And we all return from whence we came.

Back to a singularity of universal and all consuming nothing.

- Black keys.

The evolution of the black classical arts was made possible by Herbert Simon Family Foundation, a Challenge America grant from the National Endowment for the Arts Dr. Christian Wolf and Elaine Holden Wolf.

Additional funding provided by Glick Philanthropies and an Arts Midwest gig grant and the following.