I went to see the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra on Friday the 18th of February at the request of and in the company of a dear friend. My Pruitt-Igoe roots at once rose to the forefront, and my back stiffened and I fought the feeling, but I relented and gave in.
Powell Hall is a place I’ve passed with uncaring abandonment in times past. Just another big, gray, monument to white dominance in this tired old city.
Upon entering into the hall, the grandeur of it struck me at once. Our seats were the best to be obtained. We sat three rows from the front of the orchestra, directly in line with the violinist section. The cavern-like structure engulfed me, and I felt extremely small.
I sat and watched the multicolored people file in, happy and expectant. They were dressed in styles that ranged from beautiful suits to casual throw-ons.
The members of the symphony took their seats. The conductor came on stage. A black man! He was graceful and articulate and an anomaly for me.
The music started, and I was captured. The wonderful strains of instruments were played to perfection, and I thought, “What could be better than this?”
She came on stage. Her name is Patrice Jackson. She was dressed in African attire, and she carried a cello in her hands as if it were a toy. She sat down and the metamorphosis began.
She played a piece entitled The Armed Man: A Mass for Peace. The stillness engulfed the audience, and her spell was woven each time her thin fingers caressing her lover in her arms. She took me up to heights not visited before, and I felt the strange sensation in the corner of my eye.
I looked around slowly, especially to view the older black women’s faces, and I was right. In the quietness and beauty of the sounds being played by this daughter of them all, their faces glowed as their hearts broke with pride. She was theirs.
When she finished and we all stood, I remember finding a new word: “Bravo!” And the Pruitt-Igoe in me said, quietly, “Sho nuf.”
