The Kennedy Center: A Temple of Black, Queer, Disabled Possibility
For me, the Kennedy Center is the epitome of class. Not just because of the chandeliers, the grandeur, or the way the lights hit the marble floors. But because it is a space where art is honored, where performance is sacred, and — on this particular night — where I could exist in my full self, unfiltered and unbothered.
Walking into that space as a queer, Black, disabled person, fully living into my potential, wasn’t just a night out — it was a reclamation. It was stepping into a world that, for so long, told people like me that we were not meant for places like this. That art, beauty, and high culture were reserved for others. But that night, I walked through those doors in my full power, and nothing about me was frowned upon.
Aunties at the Door: Black Hospitality in Cultural Spaces
The first thing I noticed wasn’t the decor. It was the greeting. The reception. The concierge. Older Black women, their presence immediately familiar, like walking into your favorite auntie’s house. And not the strict, “don’t touch my good china” auntie — the one who lets you stay up late and tells you the family tea when no one else will.
It’s the kind of job your auntie would have, working part-time at a museum, making sure folks get to their seats, making you feel like you belong. That kind of welcome is rare in spaces like this. It’s a reminder that we are supposed to be here, that this art — this culture — was meant for us, too.
And to be in that space, comfortable in my skin, in my existence, ready to enjoy the arts without fear of judgment, was nothing short of revolutionary.
Brandy, Legacy, and the Power of Black Art
Seeing Brandy as the lead Roxie Hart in Chicago at the Kennedy Center wasn’t just a perforamce — it was a moment. A reminder that the institutions meant to define “high art” and “culture” would be empty without Black artists, Black voices, Black creativity.
Brandy is more than just a singer — she’s a cultural institution in her own right. She’s the Vocal Bible, the blueprint for generations of R&B singers. From the textured, intricate harmonies that defined her sound to the way she made vulnerability feel powerful, Brandy’s influence runs deep.
But beyond the music, Brandy represents something even bigger. She was the first Black Cinderella, giving an entire generation a fairytale in which we were the main characters. She was a young, dark-skinned Black girl dominating the charts and starring in her own sitcom when Hollywood was still acting like there was only room for one Black star at a time. She made space where there was none and did it with grace, innovation, and an unmatched voice.
So, to see her at the Kennedy Center — this hallowed institution of art and performance — was everything. It was proof that we belong in these spaces. That our voices, our music, our stories are the culture. And that no matter how hard white supremacy tries to redefine what is “worthy” of being celebrated, the truth remains: American culture is Black culture.
Brandy at the Kennedy Center wasn’t just a concert. It was history. It was legacy. And it was a moment I won’t forget.
Brandy taking a bow as the best Roxie Hart in history. Her rich sultry vocals took this performance from great to mesmerizing.
A Bleak Future Under White Supremacy
But now? Now, the Kennedy Center is being run by a man with a vision as dry as his lips. A white supremacist with the wrong color foundation, no understanding of art, no appreciation for beauty beyond the confines of Western Europe. He sees the Kennedy Center not as a temple of cultural possibility, but as a tool of erasure.
They programmed a January 6th chorus — an institution meant to celebrate the arts now platforming the voices of insurrectionists. That is their vision for America: dull, sanitized, stripped of everything that makes it vibrant, bold, and real. A culture that doesn’t challenge, doesn’t expand, doesn’t breathe.
But here’s the thing: art doesn’t belong to them.
Black culture, queer culture, disabled culture — these are the lifeblood of American creativity. They can try to whitewash it, control it, suppress it, but they will never own it. We have always been the architects of beauty, of sound, of movement. And we always will be.
Claiming Our Space
That night at the Kennedy Center was a glimpse of what is still possible. Of a world where Black, queer, disabled people don’t just survive but take up space in the most legendary institutions and make them our own. They may be trying to turn the lights off, but we are the ones who shine.
