The Art of Voice, Vision, and Purpose

Dr. Keys, you began your professional journey as a performing artist — with voice as your primary instrument, supported by acting and dance. How did that foundation in storytelling and performance shape who you are today?
Absolutely. My artistic journey began with voice. Singing was the first way I learned to take up space, move a room, and tell the truth. Acting came next, and dance followed as a skill I developed to become a more versatile performer. But voice has always been my center — the tool I still rely on most today.
Music, theater, and dance gave me more than creative outlets; they gave me structure. In the arts, you quickly learn that your individual expression matters, but so does your ability to contribute to something greater than yourself. If you’re off pitch, too loud, or miss your mark, you impact the whole ensemble. That awareness — knowing your role and showing up fully — has stayed with me.
It taught me discipline, preparation, and the value of harmony. Those lessons now shape how I lead and collaborate — whether I’m speaking with funders, mentoring young leaders, or working alongside university presidents. I still believe in rehearsal. I still listen for harmony. And I still use my voice, not just to be heard, but to help move something forward — something bigger than myself.

---

What drew you into performance in the first place, and what moments from your artistic career still resonate most deeply with you?
The first time I sang with real purpose was in second grade. My teacher, Miss Annette Coward, gave me a moment that changed everything. That day, I realized I had a gift — not just for singing, but for making people feel something.
Church soon became my second home. There, I learned to lead a room through feeling, truth, and faith. Between school, church, and a supportive family, I had spaces where my voice was both nurtured and stretched.
One of the most defining moments came in 2002, when I was named a winner of the Essence Youth Awards — a national competition that celebrated young Black talent in music, oratory, dance, and the visual arts. Winners were flown to Los Angeles for the ceremony and featured in Essence Magazine through a spread sponsored by Pepsi. My grandmother still has that issue.
I won singing “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child.” What most people didn’t know was that my mother was incarcerated at the time. The song was more than performance; it was truth. I had no parent to bring with me to L.A., so I invited my choral teacher, Miss Norma Jean Hughes — my second mother — who taught me that music wasn’t just notes; it was message and memory.
Standing on that stage, I wasn’t just performing. I was revealing something. That experience taught me that honest expression transcends words. When you bring your full self forward, people don’t just listen — they connect.
Since then, I’ve sung backup for Patti LaBelle, performed at Carnegie Hall, and shared the stage with Denyce Graves. Those moments taught me excellence, timing, and presence. But eventually, my artistry evolved. I began using that same intentionality in leadership and strategy — helping others find their voice just as I found mine.

The arts often demand sacrifice — time, energy, even identity. What challenges did you face navigating a career in performance, and how did you find the strength to overcome them?
One of the greatest challenges was learning how to carry my truth into spaces that weren’t always prepared to receive it. As a young Black man in the performing arts, there was always negotiation — between visibility and vulnerability, between authenticity and safety.
People sometimes asked for a version of me that fit their expectations — “more street,” “more hip-hop energy.” But that wasn’t me. I wasn’t performing stereotypes; I was performing truth. Growing up, being a young Black boy in the arts wasn’t always celebrated. It came with assumptions and risks.
What got me through was understanding that vulnerability isn’t weakness — it’s power. The stage gave me space to express emotions that didn’t have language yet. That honesty continues to guide me. It’s how I lead, teach, and serve today.

How has your experience as a performer informed your leadership and work in education, philanthropy, and community engagement?
Performance taught me how to read a room long before I ever entered a boardroom. Artists listen with their whole being — to rhythm, energy, and silence. That sensitivity helps me know when to speak, when to listen, and when to create space for others.
It also taught me the discipline of rehearsal — preparation, consistency, and presence. I bring that same rigor to strategy and partnerships. I’m also not afraid to go off script if it means finding something more human and authentic.
The performer in me never disappeared. He simply took on new roles — using voice and presence to move ideas, elevate others, and create spaces where transformation can take root.

Dance is often called a universal language. What lessons has it taught you about communication and culture?
Dance taught me that true communication goes beyond words — it’s about presence, timing, and patience. It’s like double dutch: you don’t just jump in; you study the rhythm. If you rush, you get hit — and where I grew up, that meant cable cords, not soft ropes.
That lesson stays with me. Whether in a boardroom or a policy meeting, I know to read the rhythm before I move. I’ve even seen that same intuition in my daughter. She observes before she joins in — a quiet wisdom passed down through generations. That’s the legacy of movement: awareness, intention, and grace.

Which choreographers, artists, or performances most shaped your worldview?
Debbie Allen, without question. Fame introduced me to the power of choreography, discipline, and storytelling. She made art feel sacred. Later, A Different World — another of her projects — shaped how I saw HBCUs as spaces of excellence and belonging.
I was also deeply inspired by Judith Jamison, Alvin Ailey, Gregory Hines, and vocalists like Donny Hathaway, Jill Scott, Luther Vandross, and Whitney Houston — we always name Whitney first in New Jersey. Their art was more than melody; it was memory.
Classical artists like Marian Anderson, Jessye Norman, Leontyne Price, and Paul Robeson showed me how depth and dignity can coexist in expression. Spirituals, especially, became my anchor — songs of pain, resilience, and faith.

Urban Arts Magazine celebrates the bridge between creativity and community. How does your artistic past inform your work in education and equity today?
Creativity and community have never been separate for me. My artistic roots gave me a lens — a way to see people, story, and humanity. That lens guides all my work, whether in philanthropy, policy, or leadership.
Art taught me to ask better questions — to prioritize empathy and emotion in systems that often focus only on numbers. Because numbers don’t change lives. People do.
I also think about the next generation — young people who rarely see themselves reflected in leadership. Debbie Allen and Marian Anderson gave me that mirror. Now, I want to create those moments for others — where creativity isn’t treated as extra, but essential.

What wisdom would you share with young creatives balancing artistry and purpose?
Protect your creativity. It’s sacred. The world will tell you to choose between art and stability, but your creativity is not a detour — it’s a foundation.
Let your work come from truth, not approval. The performances that stay with us aren’t perfect; they’re honest. And stay open — your path may shift, but your purpose will meet you there.
I used to joke that I was going to be the male Beyoncé — “Heyoncé.” But in time, I realized the stage was training, not destination. It prepared me for leadership and legacy. So keep creating, keep evolving, and remember: even when no one’s clapping yet, your story still matters.

When you reflect on your journey — from stage to strategy — what connects it all?
Expression with purpose. Whether performing, teaching, or leading, I’ve always used my voice to move something forward and help people feel seen.
But my grandmother gave me the best reminder. She once read a press release about my work — full of elegant titles and strategic language — and said, “This is nice. But if the people you’re doing this for don’t know what you’re doing, are you really doing the work?”
That grounded me. The work must reach the people who need it. So I speak not just as Dr. Keys, but as that kid from Paterson who grew up with more obstacles than opportunities. I use my voice so that story isn’t erased — to help others find power in their own.

What role do you believe the arts — particularly dance — play in social change and healing in Black communities?
The arts have always been our language of resistance, remembrance, and renewal. As conversations around equity and inclusion become diluted, art remains a space of truth.
Dance, especially, allows us to speak even when systems try to silence us. It’s movement as protest — as proof that we’re still here. From our ancestors’ spirituals to krumping in the streets, expression has always been our first form of freedom.
As Debbie Allen said in Fame, “You want fame? Fame costs. And this is where you start paying.” The same is true for liberation. We pay with presence, truth, and courage. And through art — through rhythm and resilience — we keep moving, even when the world tries to hold us still.