There was no sign of rustling or change, no evidence that anything had been shaken or anyone’s “resolve tested.” In the suburbs of my Kansas City elementary school it was classes and recess as usual. It wasn’t until I returned home to a crying mother and an unrecognizable face on my television that I knew this day would be one I should remember. On the night of September 11th my mother, sister, and I had plans to see American Ballet Theatre perform; they are a company based in New York City that was on tour at the time. The protesting from my mother was nearly unyielding, but my sister’s convincing got my mother out of the house and in the audience. This was no typical ballet performance; the dancers began the show by explaining their connections to those assaulted in the attacks on our country- and more specifically- their city. “My brother in-law is missing but I’m still here,” said one dancer; the show went on. On the program for that evening was a Paul Taylor piece that had premiered in April of 2001, it was titled “Black Tuesday” and choreographed to songs from the Great Depression; it’s performed in front of a backdrop of New York City’s skyline. The audience and dancer’s entered a place of community; it was a shared experience of mourning and reflection, a true example of art’s sustaining power. The company director, Kevin McKenzie, when asked about continuing their tour is quoted as saying, “At worst, people will be distracted; at best, their spirits will be uplifted.”