Wouldn't change his life forever.
Yesterday, I attended a concert at Alice Tully Hall in Lincoln Center. A thing put together by the Chamber Music Society that featured pieces by Schubert, Spohr, and Beethoven. Much like theories of constitutional interpretation, it has a wonderful aesthetic that is appealing to the mind and to the ears, but very much outside my wheelhouse.
I was reminded of that Sunday I spent suit-shopping with the family and trying on not just the clothes themselves but lifestyle I seemed to be growing into, with equal measures pleasure and unease. I'd originally planned on going with a friend, but such an event as this was no match for court-side Knicks tickets.
Alone in the orchestra seating (which was spotted with a few friends of mine, scattered about), surrounded by folks at least a decade older than myself and with the group of Ukrainians behind me talking reverently about my favorite movie of all time, I felt equal measures pleasure and unease, and not just because I seemed to be the only person of color to be spotted in that entire audience.
Seven years ago last month, I found myself in Paris at the Opéra Bastille, watching the Nutcracker for the first time. I was ecstatic to have been put in that position, propelled by my mother's efforts more than anything else. I'd arrived.
But this time around, alone, surrounded by people who chatted incessantly and knowledgeably about something I knew nothing about, my shoulders ached for the weight of a hoodie. I was the kid decked out in a suit, a costume, with my uniform, smelling, reeking in fact, of my origins and the more organic parts of myself, lay discarded just out of sight, nudged into that shadowed corner by my wingtips.
I was reminded of that Sunday I spent suit-shopping with the family and trying on not just the clothes themselves but lifestyle I seemed to be growing into, with equal measures pleasure and unease. I'd originally planned on going with a friend, but such an event as this was no match for court-side Knicks tickets.
Alone in the orchestra seating (which was spotted with a few friends of mine, scattered about), surrounded by folks at least a decade older than myself and with the group of Ukrainians behind me talking reverently about my favorite movie of all time, I felt equal measures pleasure and unease, and not just because I seemed to be the only person of color to be spotted in that entire audience.
Seven years ago last month, I found myself in Paris at the Opéra Bastille, watching the Nutcracker for the first time. I was ecstatic to have been put in that position, propelled by my mother's efforts more than anything else. I'd arrived.
But this time around, alone, surrounded by people who chatted incessantly and knowledgeably about something I knew nothing about, my shoulders ached for the weight of a hoodie. I was the kid decked out in a suit, a costume, with my uniform, smelling, reeking in fact, of my origins and the more organic parts of myself, lay discarded just out of sight, nudged into that shadowed corner by my wingtips.