Heritage & Awareness: Humanity, Purpose, and Truth in the Arts

My former acting professor Eric Ruffin used to tell me, “Who controls the media, controls the masses.” My understanding of that truth deepened during a class I took as a Howard University undergraduate, “Blacks in the Arts.” After each saturated lesson, my friends and I would wonder how we’d manage to memorize the pages of artist names, birth dates, and piece titles before the next quiz. However, these lessons have grown more impactful for me throughout the development of my creative identity, as I hope to honor Black writers, vocalists, sculptors, and actors who redefined their crafts and expanded the way broader society viewed them in the process. While they may not have set out to “control” anything, they challenged the media’s portrayal of their communities and paved the way toward dignity and self-determination in a country long shaped by systemic racism. Every single one of them was a living example of how true expression can be a tool for change, and their journeys inspire me as I attempt to navigate this world as an artist myself.

As a Black, queer woman, it’s challenging trying to thrive in spaces that were constructed to aid in my dehumanization. To be an artist on top of that has been a uniquely deflating task at times, but theater has provided me with joy, relief, and a method for truth-telling. The catharsis stems from seizing the moment in a room of other breathing beings united in confronting the thrills and trials of humanity. Yet offstage, every day brings new, horrific proof of how little humanity means to so many in power. Every day, I read about another way people are being systematically disenfranchised or put in mortal danger. The next headline is a warning of what happens to those who put a spotlight on these crimes against humanity. The more dangerous it becomes to tell the truth about this moment in human history, the more necessary it feels to do so. When reality feels too heavy to carry, I recall the long list of artists I learned about at Howard, thinking about what they carried and the beauty they created while bearing that weight. I hear the angelic voice of Leontyne Price and see Augusta Savage’s evocative sculptures, and I think about moments where I had the pleasure of making an impact as an artist.

A couple years ago, I spent a summer in Logan, Utah, where I performed in Katori Hall’s all-Black play, The Mountaintop; in a predominantly white, Mormon town, my director, castmate, and I presented a magical and unfiltered reimagining of the last night of Martin Luther King Jr.’s life on the eve of his assassination in Memphis, Tennessee. When I first signed onto this project, I was a bit disappointed to be working so far from the community I was familiar with, where I knew it would have been well received and celebrated. However, as I moved through the experience, my perspective shifted, and I realized we were in a perfect place to tell this story. The purpose of art is not to find an audience that will “like” what we’re saying. We show up to provoke thought and conversation, hopefully inciting changes of heart that become changes in action. I had the privilege of bringing an alternate perspective to some who may not have been exposed to it otherwise; I got to speak to people I might not have ever crossed paths with otherwise. At the end of a performance one night, a local Black actor expressed his gratitude and said that seeing the show reminded him of what acting is about. That summer gifted me with several invaluable human exchanges that left their marks on me.

Like many things, art is rarely gratifying when it’s easy. For it to reflect humanity truthfully, it must reflect human vulnerability and imperfection. Before performing anything in front of an audience, my fellow actors and I try and fail several times together. Just as a painter starts with a sketch, erases, redraws, begins painting—and maybe even paints over everything to start again—we go down several paths before deciding which one aligns most with us and our message. The beauty is that the experience of yesterday’s paths may give us something that uniquely colors the path we choose today. My imperfections, things that look like mistakes in the moment, continue informing and improving my future.

Art and humanity cannot live without each other. Without one, the other is stripped of its meaning. The cold, one-dimensional results of AI’s attempts to do artists’ work are chilling examples of what happens when someone disturbs the inextricable relationship between the two. Yet even before the normalization of artificial intelligence assuming human work, art has been structurally undervalued, and artists are taken advantage of on a large scale. As an artist, it’s discouraging to see carefully crafted work be overlooked in favor of churning out as many productions as possible. A great deal of my life’s best moments happened in rooms with human artists getting lost in the grueling and rewarding work of creating. So many of my friends are working long hours, surviving on little money, and enduring extensive periods of psychological and physical exhaustion, all in the pursuit of making a living off the passions they pour so much into. These are the people in my community who regularly restore my faith in the world, whose work has catalyzed some of my most vital emotional milestones. I don’t personally know anyone who doesn’t rely on art to get through their days, whether it’s the music in their headphones, books on the subway, or movie marathons over weekends. It’s what I look forward to, what breaks up the monotony of being a cog in a capitalist machine.

Still, seeing profits prioritized over people is nothing new. I learned that as a little Black girl, again as an HBCU student, and now as I observe the most disturbing parts of history repeating themselves. My Black friends, family, and I grew up with firsthand knowledge of the tie between Black history and hardship. Classrooms and generational trauma taught us that. My personal understanding of the resilient relationship between Blackness and liberation is something newer and ever-growing. It’s an understanding that becomes more enmeshed with my artistic trajectory as time goes on. I relish the rich history of Black people’s influence on so many monumental liberation movements. My own Haitian father was born in the only country in history where a slave revolt led to national independence. Despite living through circumstances I’m lucky enough to only imagine, the Black diaspora has maintained creativity so undeniable that it has shaped culture for the masses everywhere. Commitment to authenticity is not easy, but meaningful work seldom is. I feel the echo of those words whenever I choose to speak my truth—even if it’s scary. Every scene lived fully, every true written word and sincere conversation is a protest. Each moment I decide not to shrink, I’m one step closer to liberation.

About Black History Month:

Each February, Yale SOM and the Office of Community Engagement and Dialogue participate in the U.S. celebration of Black History Month, a monthlong commemoration of African American history and achievement. This year’s national theme, “A Century of Black History Commemorations,” honors a century of national celebrations of Black history in the United States.