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Timothy C. Takach
Timothy C. Takach Publications
The Wings of Our Children
A powerful allegory of oppression that speaks of hope for the next generation.
SATB div. a cappella
Equal parts allegory and magical realism, “The Wings of Our Children” delivers a powerful story of oppression and hope. Written with vivid colors and a changing landscape of sound, the story takes center stage, unimpeded by Takach’s compositional choices. Idiomatic writing for the voices but stunning effects for the audience make this piece a memorable choice as an anchor in your program.
Composer’s Notes
I found this text in a collection of short stories. It was only a couple pages long, but the content was strong, and the language clear. Leah Bobet wrote in these compact sentences, and the images were so vivid, I knew immediately I wanted to set it to music, I just didn’t know when.
Leah graciously agreed not only to let me use her story but also to make an edit of it for this piece. She has a specific context for this story, and although it’s a context that I am in love with, I don’t want to tell you what that is. I think the story itself is an allegory for many different things – oppression, genocide, racism and the hope for a community to heal and rise with each new generation.
The music is built on ritual and on storytelling. I picture a group of people who pass on their history through song, one that is thematic and vivid in its sounds. Although the piece moves through many different moods and colors, the ending is hopeful, triumphant – the next generation taking flight.
– Timothy C. Takach, 2017
Text
We never saw it coming, although I suppose nobody ever does. One day you have wings, and the next you crawl.
There was no way we could have known. We were tried, and we were found guilty. I still have nightmares, some nights, the shouts that followed us for days and nights of nonstop running, running some of us had never done in our lives. The blood that marked our path until it stopped, and the tears that kept on going.
She gave us wings; the mob lined us up, one by one, and took them away again. The wings made no sound as they were piled high in the center of the green-paved square, feathers ruffling in the afternoon breeze.
Nobody goes up into the mountains, so we went up into the mountains. These days, we do a lot of waiting. We wait for our next generation to be born and weaned. For this I believe: the wings of our children will be their own. They will hunt through the skies, play in the clouds, alight on the tops of trees. They will bring us news of the world,
delicacies from afar, sights to be tasted and savoured on cold nights.
They will not walk, crawl, or beg.
They will fly.
– Leah Bobet, from the short story Displaced Persons, edited by TCT. Used with permission.
$1.60 per licensed PDF
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