Going to sing at The White House was the farthest thing from my mind in June. I had put the finishing touches on my songs and was about to send them in for mastering. I was scheduling fittings for what I’d wear on the CD cover with John Figueredo, a truly gifted designer, who showed me some amazing sketches and was in the process of bringing them to life. And I was coordinating everyone’s schedule to make sure that the shoot happened on time because I was planning a September release. I was in a weekly anti-war reading series at The Tribeca Playhouse called Voices of Peace and Dissent from Ground Zero that had garnered a lot of attention. I was working on rewrites for another one person show about reparations that I had sketched out and my director and mentor Jeff Cohen and I had discussed enthusiastically awhile back. I was in and out of auditions and callbacks. I had just received a script with music for “Waiting for the Glaciers to Melt,” a new musical by Brian Lane Green that was to premiere at The Midtown International Theater Festival for six performances in July and I hadn’t even opened the package. I was redecorating my apartment, one room at a time. My birthday was at the end of the month and I very much wanted to go home and be with my grandmother. Throw in the usual hustle for gigs and money and fun and that’s my NYC existence in any given month. The White House was just another detail.

Actually, I was asked to sing at The White House in February for Black History Month. The First Lady wanted to present a program of African-American poetry. I thought how appropriate, to sing Dream Deferred from Harlem Song. The Langston Hughes poem had been set to music by Zane Mark specifically for me. I was to be the only one that would appear from our cast. When I told my friends about it, they asked me what subversive thing I would do when I got there (“Don’t say anything about the war!” “Don’t shank the President!” “Don’t eat the Gov’ment cheese!”) but I didn’t believe it would happen in the first place. It was too surreal, even for me. Sure enough, it got postponed, with a plan to reschedule “sometime in the near future.” In other words, that could be never, I thought to myself, and in my NYC hustle, I forgot all about it.

Things really were rescheduled in the near future. This time it was in celebration of Black Music Month, featuring a jazz ensemble and selections from Harlem Song. Even after I was informed that I was scheduled to appear, I didn’t necessarily believe it right away. I was fully expecting another cancellation almost up until it was time to step onto the train. I don’t think the enormity of it all hit me until I returned to the city and haphazardly ran into someone who, with a wide-eyed intensity, pummeled me with questions: Is it true that you sang at The White House? Did you meet The President? What was it like? Clearly, by the look on this person’s face, this was a really big deal. So why didn’t it feel that way?

On the other hand, I wasn’t so overwhelmed by my circumstances that I didn’t know that I had to wear something cool. (I’m never that out of it.) I chose the first dress that Johnny finished for the shoot: a “vintage” cocktail dress (the kind that makes me “look like a girl,” to quote Ron Ward) in powder blue satin with a delicate lace rose pattern overlay in gun metal silver. It created an intense sheen against the brown of my skin. Actually, it seemed to have a glow of its own.

I’m not being a fashionista about this. A vintage look was very important to remain true to the look and feel of the song in context. The dress that I wear in the show is very much in the style of that period. I wanted to somehow duplicate that effect visually. “Dream Deferred” gives a nod in its approach in performance (however slight) to Billie Holiday. (The character is called “Lady Blue.”) In performance, it is set in a ‘50’s jazz milieu and foreshadows the tension and volatility of the 60’s that erupts in the next number, “Shake.”

Langston definitely wrote about the reality of his surroundings. The “dream deferred” is basically the black community of Harlem (a microcosm of black communities everywhere): relocating to Harlem from parts unknown at the turn of the century in the hopes of a better life, weathering the All-American phenomena of white flight in the process, giving birth to The Harlem Renaissance, and ultimately having that dream nullified by racism. The entire piece builds itself up into this gigantic explosion of emotion and intensity. As an actor, I had to personify those qualities in order for the audience to understand what was taking place, not just in the performance, but in our collective history. Thankfully, Zane always let me sing it my way, in my own style. In retrospect, I’m glad that I had my own way and my own style in the first place. In a world where everyone wallows in melisma when (they think) they’re singing, it’s a beautiful thing, to be wanted for sounding like myself.

I knew that the more elegant I looked, the more effective the song would be. Interestingly enough, John had never seen Harlem Song. He didn’t know anything about the song or my interpretation of it and I didn’t offer any descriptions of what I wanted. And yet, what he designed of his own volition couldn’t have been more perfect.

We rehearsed the day before in an infamous space on Broadway near Union Square. Only five of us would go: BJ Crosby (who was in New Orleans and would meet us there); Charles Wallace (who was driving to DC, to spend the weekend with friends), Randy Davis (who was leaving ahead of us, to relax and enjoy the day), Rosa Curry (who looked resplendent, as usual) and Zane (our fearless leader). Janice our fearless stage manager was there to give out tickets and information. I wanted to know pertinent things like, was there a gym and a steam/sauna at the hotel and would there be food at our mid afternoon rehearsal. (I was only being a conscientious daughter with that last question. My father is diabetic.) Randy had previously performed at The White House as a member of the cast of “The Hot Mikado” for the Senators’ wives, so he was a bevy of information.

When my father arrived at my apartment the day we were scheduled to leave, his excitement was infectious. As he settled in and I packed my things, I thought, wow, I’m really going to sing at The White House. As a matter of fact, I think I had that thought blossoming in my head all the way there, right up until the moment we entered the golden walls of The East Room...