I love that moment when the lights in the concert hall dim. The audience fades away, and all I see is the Steinway in front of me. Above the keys, in the black glow of the fallboard, I see the reflection of my fingers, poised for the dance. Everything is white and black, symmetrical and perfect. Everything except me. My brown skin breaks the image I’m trained to see. The juxtaposition never gets less stark.
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