Blue

At the opera, I exchange small talk with the woman seated next to me. . .

 “Excuse me, is it possible for you to move your chair a little closer to the wall?”

The woman who’s just taken the seat next to mine is hoping for a better sightline to the stage.

“Yes, of course.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much. Are we good?”

“We’re fine. Yes. Not a problem at all.”

By the time I went online to buy tickets to Blue, the opera—music by Jeanine Tesori, libretto by Tazewell Thompson—having read the rave review in that morning’s Washington Post, the house had nearly sold out for the one night my husband and I had free. So I bought tickets that had us sitting apart. Two box seats separated by three seats and an aisle.

The woman sitting next to me is Black. I am White. Given our gray hair and other markers, I estimate we’re about the same age.

The house lights go dark. The stage lights come up.

Prologue: The Father, a Black man, enters (bass Kenneth Kellogg). He walks to a table behind which a police officer stands. The officer hands him a policeman’s uniform. The Father removes his street clothes and dons the uniform. He’s given a utility belt. He straps on the belt. Into the belt he places a nightstick and gun. He walks off the stage and the opera begins.

Blue tells the story of a Black family in Harlem whose sixteen-year-old son is shot and killed by a policeman. The policeman is White and a colleague of The Father. As in a Greek drama, this tragedy is foretold.

Act One, Scene One: Three Girlfriends visit The Mother (mezzo-soprano Briana Hunter). The Three Girlfriends haven’t seen their friend in a long time and are surprised to find her not only married but pregnant. The Mother shows them pictures of The Husband. The Girlfriends are impressed that he’s so good-looking but upset to learn that he’s a cop. When The Mother reveals that she’s pregnant with a boy they tell her she’s lost her mind. Thou shalt bring forth no black boys into this world!  they sing. Get that baby boy far away! Get yourself an island . . . Because this country is no place for a Black man.

The Father, The Mother, the Son and all other characters remain unnamed. Only the place where this story unfolds has a name—Harlem—though it could just as well be Minneapolis, St. Louis, Los Angeles, Baltimore or Memphis, among others.

Time springs open, Time collapses. We see The Father and The Mother in the hospital, post-birth. The Father clumsily learns to hold his infant son while The Mother and The Nurse laugh and coach him on. We see The Father stopping in at a tavern. Overjoyed, he reports his good news to his friends—other policemen—who regale him and joke: You got a son on the first try.

Scene Four opens in The Son’s bedroom. The Son (tenor Aaron Crouch) is now sixteen and a budding artist. His drawings and collages fill the walls. He’s also an activist, angry about police aggression, angry about the killing of Black men. The Father enters. The two argue. The Son’s angry with his father for being a cop. He’s ashamed of him. It’s why he won’t bring friends home. They come close to blows. When there doesn’t seem to be any way to reconcile The Father grabs The Son, wraps him in a tight embrace and vows to never let him go. I will never let you go. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever. You my son.

Stage lights go down. House lights come up. It’s intermission.

I sit back in my seat and turn to my neighbor.

“This is very powerful,” I say. A paltry statement for what I’ve just experienced but it’s all I can muster.

“Yes,” she says. “And we haven’t come to the climax yet.”

“Yes, I know. I’m bracing myself.”

I want to know what my husband is thinking and feeling.

“I’d like to join my husband,” I say.  I explain that he’s sitting across the aisle from us.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she says. “We could have exchanged seats, so you and he could sit together. We could still do that.”

I say that’s very kind of her but not necessary. She turns to the man on her other side and introduces us. It’s her nephew. We all three exchange names, but as we’re all wearing masks I can’t make out theirs and have no idea if they’ve caught mine. When we exit I introduce them to my husband. Again, she gives us her name but I still don’t understand. No matter.

She turns to my husband.

“Your wife has taught me something,” she tells him. “She’s a lovely woman and she’s taught me something tonight.” She walks off.

I have no idea what it is that I’ve taught her.

Twenty minutes later, we return to our respective seats.

Second Act. The Father meets with The Reverend and grapples with his rage: The Son, shot at a peaceful protest, has died. The Reverend tries, with a litany of bromides, to persuade The Father to place his trust in God. The Father will have none of it. What he wants is revenge.

 In the scenes that follow, The Girlfriends attempt to comfort The Mother as she sits frozen in grief at her front window. We attend the funeral. It’s when The Father sings his impassioned plea, addressing his deceased Son—Stay alive. That’s what you supposed to do. A walking, moving target. A black boy. Take off the hoodie—that my neighbor turns to me.

“Do you have a phone?” she says.

Why is she asking me if I have a phone at a moment like this?

“Yes, I do.”

“But you don’t have to worry.”

This damn mask! She’s asking if I have a son not a phone!

“Yes, I have a son. I know, I don’t have to worry. I think a lot about that.”

I don’t think she’s heard me. She’s focused on the stage, on The Father’s song. Don’t get a tattoo. Don’t pierce your ears. Don’t shave your head. Don’t get an Afro . . .  Don’t look the man in his eye. Look the man in the eye.

“My nephew’s a big man,” she turns and says. “You saw for yourself. He’s large and Black.”

She turns back to the stage, shouts, “Amen! Amen amen amen!” then turns to me and lightly touches my hand.

“Will you share this with me?” she says.

I’m not sure what she has in mind, nevertheless I take the hand she’s offered.

“Amen amen amen!” she cries.

The singers sing I lay my burden down, my burden down and I find myself fighting back tears. But why am I fighting back? Why not let loose and cry?

“Amen! Amen!” my neighbor cries as the funeral progresses onstage, The Mother imploring God: Take care of my boy . . . Welcome him into your house . . . to his new room in heaven . . . He needs to sleep with the light on.

I place my other hand on top of hers. The voices burst the boundaries of the stage, fill the building, the city itself, it seems. My neighbor places her other hand on top of mine and we stay this way, rapt.

In the final scene, the family is magically reunited. The Son hasn’t died, after all! At the end of the day, The Son and The Father return home to a beautiful dinner. The Mother’s prepared chicken stew, barbecued ribs, golden buttermilk biscuits for herself and The Father. Butter beans, black-eyed peas and stewed tomatoes for her vegan Son. Plus, The Son has great news—his teacher will write a recommendation that, combined with his latest artwork, will for sure get him into RISD—the Rhode Island School of Design! Of course you’ll see me again, he sings. It’s only four hours away.

Hallucination? Dream? Hope? If only. If only.

The singers take their bows. We jump to our feet.

My neighbor cries, “Whoo! Whoo! Whoo!”

We continue to applaud and she continues to cry “Whoo! Whoo! Whoo!” for five, ten minutes? Who’s counting? The stage empties. We’re exhausted and uplifted. Uplifted by that glorious singing. Exhausted by a story that’s tragically familiar.

We file into the lobby. I’m not ready to say good-bye to the woman I’ve sat with for close to three hours, whose hands I’ve held tight, though I’m not sure what to say or if I’m ready to say anything—I want to stay in that box we’ve just left and think about all that’s happened. I sense she feels the same. She and I, and my husband and her nephew, find a corner where we can stand together, apart from the crowd. We say nothing at first. Then my neighbor asks us to guess her nephew’s age. He removes his mask. We  guess thirty-five. He says forty-nine. And that he has two daughters, ages twelve and sixteen.

“The one thing,” my neighbor tells me, “that we’re always telling our kids, what I always say to my nieces and nephews when they leave the house, is to be safe and come home. I say I don’t care about who you’re trying to be in the world, whether you’re important or not, who you know or how much money you make—just come back home. Just come home.”

Four Americans in the lobby of the Kennedy Center. Two women, two men. Two Black, two White. Who’ve just attended an opera about race in the United States. About Black families trying to survive. Who hope and pray that at the end of the day their kids will come home.

To my neighbor’s nephew we say: “Stay safe. Stay safe, stay safe.”

 We embrace all around. I hold her one, two extra beats. We let go.

On the way home I cannot stop thinking about my neighbor. Next morning, and the one after that, it’s the same. Wondering if other people in that audience experienced anything similar. I find myself imagining encounters on street corners. On buses and subways and trains. In gas stations. Grocery stores. In Targets and Walmarts. People opening. Trusting enough to touch one another. The possibilities.