From the Roots: Who Decided?

Nobody decided out loud. That's what made it so easy not to notice. People often ask me why I started Roots in Harmony, and I love the question, because the honest answer isn't complicated: after years of singing, teaching, and conducting, I found myself asking questions about the choral world that I couldn't ignore anymore. Once those questions were clear, the choir was an easy answer.

I'm the daughter of a Zambian father and Liberian mother, who immigrated to Canada in the 1980’s. I was born in Edmonton, grew up in Southern Alberta where I joined my first chamber and jazz choir in ninth grade. That was the beginning of a lifelong relationship with choral music.

The longer I spent in choral music, the more I began to notice patterns I had never really questioned. We all know the names. Eric Whitacre. Morten Lauridsen. John Rutter. Their music has undoubtedly earned its place in the choral world. I've sung and enjoyed it myself, quite frankly.

But at some point I began to question why those names came so easily, while I struggled to name Black composers writing extraordinary choral music today. Was it because there were fewer of them? Or because I'd spent years learning one tradition more deeply than another? Why did I know so much about some composers' lives, influences, and musical language, while others remained almost completely absent from my education?

If singing exists in every culture, why does our idea of choral excellence so often point in one direction? Why are some composers treated as essential while others are treated as optional? At what point does tradition stop feeling like a choice and simply become "the way things are"?

Asking those questions doesn't mean rejecting Western classical music. In fact, some of my favourite music comes from that tradition. It simply made me wonder— why do we spend weeks studying the language, history, and style of certain composers, while music from other traditions is expected to come together in a rehearsal or two. What would happen if we approached all music with the same level of curiosity?

I've also started paying closer attention to the language we use in rehearsal. Conductors lean on imagery all the time, and it can be tremendously useful. However, I've heard phrases like "give it more sass" or "like Zulu warriors" used to describe musical ideas. Truthfully? I've probably said things over the years that I'd choose differently today. Now, I try to stop and ask a simpler question first: what sound am I actually trying to describe?

Repertoire raises the same question in a different way. Many singers have heard a director say, "Take out the fun when to end!" before turning to a spiritual or other song rooted in a different culture. I know those comments usually come from good intentions, but they forced me stop and wonder. Why is music born out of struggle, resistance, faith, or survival so often introduced as something light, while other traditions invite pages of historical context before we sing the first note? What stories are we telling about the music before anyone has even heard it?

I wanted to build a choir where those questions had room to exist. A choir where Black music and culture weren't something we visited for a concert or a month, but something we could live in week after week. A place where we could learn not just the notes, but the stories, the history, and the people behind the music. Where every piece is written, arranged, or composed by a Black creator and approached with the same time, care, depth, and curiosity we've always considered standard.

Those questions eventually stopped being theoretical. They turned into rehearsals. Reahearsals into a purpose‐driven choir.

I love choral music. I just find myself wondering how much bigger it could be if we questioned a few of the things we've always taken for granted.