It was 2008. I was 13. I don’t remember where I was going––perhaps violin rehearsal at my instructor’s studio or choir rehearsal at the community music school. What I do remember is that, at that moment, my life was about to change.

I looked up and saw a billboard. On it was a woman who would mean more to mean than I knew at the time. She was in front of a flood of dark magenta. Her arms crossed her forward chest, hands clenching her opposite shoulders. She was in some sort of split, in a way I’d never seen before. If her legs were clock hands, the time would be 4:50. At the end of her legs were pointed feet. I knew then that she was a dancer.

Her eyes were fierce. Her face intense. Her curly black hair was above her, revealing something that made the photograph more extraordinary. She was falling––rather, descending. This woman had jumped, positioned herself, and was captured on her way down.

This was a brief moment. I only viewed this billboard for a few seconds from the backseat of my parent’s car. Beside this heroine were the capitalized words “ALVIN AILEY AMERICAN DANCE THEATER.” I am sure I’d heard that name before that day, but something about this viewing was different. It stuck. The dance company was performing in my city at my state’s largest performing arts venue, one at which I had and would perform several times. The billboard promoted the show. I asked my mother if I could see it. She said yes and got tickets.

I don’t know how much time passed between my first sighting of that billboard and my first sighting of the Ailey company, but I know that I left the show forever changed.

I sat in my seat and turned to the Ailey section of the playbill/bulletin. In it was that photo of that woman, this time in black and white. Under it, I read the woman’s name for the first time: Linda Celeste Sims.

I watched you, Linda, and the company dance. I fell in love with Ailey that night. I wish I could say I remember which works I took in. I think I saw Love Stories. I obviously witnessed Revelations.

I’d grown up watching dance in various forms, taking in The Nutcracker every year and occasionally managing a Broadway show. But something about this was different. Maybe it was the genre of dance I was taking in. This was the first time in my memory viewing modern dance. Maybe it was the company being made up of members who looked like me––though I’d experienced something like it upon seeing the genius Savion Glover lead Bring in ‘da Noise, Bring in ‘da Funk. Whatever it was about the Ailey company, I was hooked.

That night, after returning home from the show, I cut out that black and white photo of you and hung it on my bedroom wall. The image remained there as a source of inspiration and aspiration until I moved shortly before college. That cut-out is still among some things from my youth.

A year ago today, it was announced that you and your husband, the incredible Glenn Allen Sims, were retiring from the company after 24 and 23 years, respectively. I was so happy for you both and prompted to reflect on your impact on my life.

Over the years, I would see as many Ailey shows as I could. I would watch documentaries, find video snippets of the company’s repertoire, and catch interviews and features until I could get my hands on the next ticket. As soon as I’d sit in the theatre, I’d scan my playbill for your name. If I saw “Linda Celeste Sims” on paper, I knew I was in for not only something amazing but something extraordinary. As years went on, my perceptions were confirmed by other reviews: year after year, season after season, you were, somehow, getting better and better.

When I watched you dance, I was not only able to decipher the feelings you emoted, but somehow those feelings, for a time, became mine. I would feel the love, anguish, exhaustion, relief, joy, and whatever else you brought onstage. That transfer of emotions was most effortless when you danced with Glenn. You’ve mentioned before that dancing together is so natural that it’s like breathing.

As a viewer, I felt it. I’m sure more than one person has cited “Fix Me, Jesus” from Revelations. Perhaps, The River. Once, at what I believe was my penultimate time seeing your brilliance in person, you and Glenn danced Christopher Wheeldon’s After the Rain pas de deux. I’d seen that ballet a handful of times, via Ailey or other dancers, but this was my first time watching you and Glenn, separately and together, dance it. Watching that pas de deux was like watching it for the first time. A literal single tear escaped my eye. It was, you are, that beautiful.

I could go on about the new The Winter in Lisbon film released as a part of your farewell––how you, in your longeveity, could still move like that. I could speak on how unbelievable it was to witness the genius up close in the following master class on Zoom. I could say a lot, but what’s most important is that I say thank you.

Thank you, Linda.

My introduction to this company, by way of your tilt, split, and jump photograph, was the spark to discover more. I studied up on Mr. Ailey and have come to respect him and the gifts he brought this world. As years went on, I expanded. I got to know other companies, other dancers––past and present––other genres. I see dance everywhere. Because of you, my world opened up in a way I wouldn’t have imagined. Because of you, I went from an observer of dance who admired it to a dance enthusiast who deeply marveled at dancers.

I use marvel purposely––not only because I’m astonished when dancers move but because, to me, dancers are superheroes. I am in awe, in wonder, when witnessing how dancers leap, contort, and glide in ways others cannot. As premier athletes, you dancers make the most physically demanding things look as easy and as graceful as turning a book’s page is like magic.

It has been an absolute joy of my life to fall in love with dance by way of the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater, and you, Linda, are an inextricable part of that joy.

Thank you, Linda.

I’ve learned a lot from you on and off stage. Through you, I’ve learned and seen what it looks like to be at the very top of one’s craft and still improving. I’ve seen what it looks like to seemingly be at capacity and making room for more. I’ve seen what it looks like to give your all and then some. Through you, I’ve learned that I should aspire to be my best and then be my best. Through you, I’ve witnessed the power of extraordinary talent and the power of skill. Through you, I’ve witnessed the power of technique, the necessity of mastering technique, and the freedom to bloom beyond technique into something more beautiful. I’ve witnessed how the same stories can be told more colorfully as we returned to them with our new knowledge and experiences. I’ve learned how we can see the same thing differently because we’ve grown up.

Because of you, I look at what I’ve done and ask, “what else?” What else can I give? What else can I do? How can I improve myself?

Through you, of course, I’ve loved this art form. Thank you for sharing your art with us, and thank you for doing the painstaking, unrelenting, and unglamorous work that brought and kept you onstage to share with us. Thank you for inspiring and teaching generations of dancers and non-dancers alike. Thank you for calling us to be better. You are one of the greatest artisans of our time, and I am blessed that God has allowed me to bear witness.

Thank you, Linda.

I hope this chapter of your life is even more fulfilling than your last. More than you could ever ask or imagine.

With gratitude and deep respect,