Phenom

She whisks the crowd into frothy guffaws and giggles 
as she calls us out for our polite response to her performance.
"You think you're in church?" She chides. 
"R&B, church, it's similar, it's similar."

She's delivering a sermon, 
but it's Friday night in Bethesda. 
She ushers us away from God's house as 
she breaks into "If I Never Get to Heaven."

She is luring us in, she's making us cozy, 
willing us to be part of the show.
She pours life and vigor to the staid velvet seated hall 
more accustomed to hosting a Philharmonic, or a holiday Handel's Messiah.

We clap and hoot back, in appreciation, and in sheepishness. 
A pair of elder women in front of me 
stamp their Devil-Stomping platform stilettos, 
a responsive praise break.

We fill the tonied opera hall with chuckles, 
"She got us"-es, and "Oh my my"s. 
The Sunday wide brim hats and floral fascinators 
bob forwards and backwards as their wearers nod vigorously.

Ledisi sprints into another multi-octave 100-yard dash, 
scaling and descending them, faster, up, up, down, down,
than double Dutch ropes come flying at ankles.
She holds notes then shifts into scatting, an aural surprise like 
Four Square balls whizzing towards centers of gravity in the school yard.

While she's having fun, she hasn't come to play.
This Grammy winner is here to orally defend her dissertation, 
and she's not leaving here without her PhD —
a Doctorate of Phenomenal Women, studying Dinah Washington.

All the while, as the crowd livens 
and the walls concuss with all-in clapping and woo-hooing,
Patrons attempt stealthy still photos, 
and then longer videos, and then come out arms held aloft, recording freely. 

A guest in my row catches their breath before they stage whisper:
"That's not allowed!" 
Our Hostess in Chief for the evening, however,
the one who's already scolded us a dozen different ways, 
— all while smiling and shaking her glittering ball gown train at us —
has not once said, "cameras down!" 
So we proceed, treating this like the arena divas concert this is.

As the evening amps up and flows, Ledisi 
("That's Leh-Duh-See, NOT Lah-Dee-Cee!" she preempts)
shares with us her muse, Dinah Washington, Queen of the Jukebox,
the woman who broke barriers and demanded more 
— from music, from the United States, from multiple generations — 
and liked to throw a cuss and an insinuation or two while she racked up those records.

Ms. Dinah scatted and crossed genres 
so that Etta James could have A Sunday Kind of Love
so Aretha Franklin could get some R-E-S-P-E-C-T
and so Ledisi could pen and sing "BLKWMN." 

Swirling in the history of mighty women that have been held up for praise,
we the crowd, young, old, male, female, sway and shimmy as a collective.
We oblige when she instructs us to copy her vocalisms in a call and repeat.
And with that, she takes us back to church; Amen.