I told this story for Voices of Change: Sharing Our Humanity Through Song and Storytelling in Austin, Texas on Saturday, October 26. 2024.

In 2013, I sang triumphantly before at least one hundred people in downtown D.C.

The brisk spring air whipped through the buildings – the White House was directly in my line of vision and an edifice that housed the D.C. local government towered over me to the left. 

The spirit of activism freely flowed; an intergenerational crowd of primarily Black people sang and chanted. I was close to completing my senior year at Howard University, and I was getting more & more settled into my organizing work.

We remembered Travyon Martin, Aiyana Stanley-Jones, Troy Davis and other Black people prematurely & violently taken away from us.

A time came for me to take the stage. I can’t quite remember if it was by an explicit invitation or a general open call. 

I walked to the front of the crowd, grabbed a microphone, and lifted my voice steadily. The National Negro Anthem was the song of choice. I knew it well, and it brought back memories of the churches across the South & the Midwest that had raised me. 

The first stanza flowed well:

Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us 

Sing a song, full of the hope that the present has brought us 

The crowd joined me, along with my college comrades who attended the event alongside me. The melody stood in strong opposition to racial capitalism, the prison industrial complex, and the many oppressive systems within the United States. 

I began the second stanza:

God of our weary years, God of our silent tears.

People swayed in the crowd, silently watching. I paused before continuing. I had swapped the beginning of the second stanza with the third. 

I stopped myself. I couldn’t believe that I’d made such a mistake. I scrambled to correct it and swiftly moved through the rest.

I resumed my place in the crowd, listening to other speakers reflect on bedrock principles like Black queer feminism, intersectional organizing, and relationship building in movement spaces. 

I tuned in and out. I honed in on my mistake and wouldn’t let it go. 

I meandered back to my dorm on campus, barely feeling the cool weather. I settled onto my bed and called my mother. 

“Momma, I messed up Lift Ev’ry Voice and Sing at a protest.” 

She listened with deep empathy and reassured me that it wouldn’t be a mistake that would hinder my future activism. 

Still, I couldn’t shake my misstep – even as I drifted off into uneven, long rest. 

***

In the years since, I have participated in many more actions, advocacy days, convenings, and movement spaces. My mother was indeed right – I’m probably one of the few people who remembers my rendition of the National Negro Anthem on a spring day eleven years ago. 

(Well, save for you wonderful folks in Austin, Texas on October 26, 2024)

I now realize that such a mistake adds depth to the organizing and long-term visioning in which I engage. I’ve made other errors along the way; through it all, I’ve laughed, I’ve cried, and I’ve sung. After these indelible experiences, I arrived at a full understanding of my purpose on Earth: I fight unapologetically for Black children to convey their beautiful & complex humanity in whatever circumstance they find themselves. I returned from Houston yesterday, after a week of gathering with other Black Southerners to strategize about how we will achieve quality public schools for all. With that life’s mission in mind, I understand that I have to continually extend grace to myself and allow my own humanity to shine through. 

Of the utmost importance is the realization that I am never alone. I was not alone as a 21-year-old college student. I was not alone when Kate introduced me to Sarah, allowing this collaboration to blossom. I was not alone as Sarah, Sheniqua, and I gathered virtually over several weeks to plan this incredible event. I was not alone in writing this piece, as my work builds on itself like my community. 

None of us are alone as we navigate these uncertain times. Through our stumbles, which make us so deeply human, we recognize the vulnerability within one another and find deeper connection through it. No mistake can hinder us from leaning into the inherent collectivism that drives humanity. I invite you, as I did, to lean into the wisdom imparted by not saying the right thing, messing up the song verse, or not fully having your opinion formed on a political issue during a specific moment in time. As our melodious voices rise, so does a multiracial, intergenerational, and international movement for human dignity.