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Many of the students we began with, back in 2006, are the first in their families to finish school, to attend university, and to build careers. The truly amazing part is that now, as young adults, their dream is not to escape. Their dream is to return. They come back to their communities—with purpose, compassion, and determination. More often than not, they come back to Ghetto Classics as teachers. Most of our current 42 teachers once sat where our students now sit. The learners have become leaders.

Which means, of course, that the program no longer “belongs” to me.

Last week, I found myself in Union City, New Jersey, USA, sitting in a sea of students, violin in hand, playing “Swan Lake” alongside kids, teachers, and my longtime colleague Melina Garcia. I hadn’t come to visit Melina and her program, the United Children’s Music Project simply for the joy of playing with young people; I was there to deliver a donation. I had just closed a similar program in Pisco, Peru—Notes for Change, Inc.—that I founded 15 years ago, and my donation for UCMP consisted of the final funds from that program. I had expected this to be a bittersweet moment; instead, it felt like a full-circle one. But more about that later.

Ask any Bogotano about their perception of Colombia’s Chocó Region, and you’ll likely hear that it is a dangerous and remote place, visited primarily for whale-watching. These inter-regional biases are not uncommon—decades of armed conflict have disrupted networks of community and social cohesion, fragmenting them and threatening the practices that sustain communal life. And though a shared sense of Colombian identity exists, each of the country’s regions maintains a distinct cultural character that is often rooted in music.

Before traveling to Chocó, my perception of Colombia’s outer territories was similarly close-minded.

In my doctoral work, I did an instrumental case study of the Music Box Village in New Orleans. This alternative music space wears many hats. It functions as a music venue, learning space, playground, and much more. It includes interactive art installation and instruments made from salvaged materials that form a kind of sonic playground. It’s also widely welcoming: when I was observing grade-four children playing in the space, I noticed that multiple intelligences were accepted and fostered. 

The Jerusalem Youth Chorus (JYC) is a music and dialogue program for Israeli and Palestinian teenagers in Jerusalem. We bring young people from East and West Jerusalem into the same room each week to sing together, practice structured dialogue, and build the leadership skills needed to navigate a deeply unequal and polarized reality.

If you work in music for social change, none of that is conceptually new—“music builds connection” is something we all believe. What has surprised us over time is how much the container matters.

While our daily lives are rattled by increasing global instability, polarization, and apathy, culture workers working toward youth empowerment and social change share many of the same questions. How do we empower young people without transferring unreasonable responsibility? How do we equip and motivate while acknowledging legitimate, sometimes harsh realities? How do we facilitate interconnectedness, in times of global dehumanization?

As Sistema Ravinia prepared for in-person learning after the pandemic lockdowns, I attended a Zoom meeting with other incoming high school freshmen, most of whom were good friends. A manager asked us, “This is the first time we’ve had high school students in our program. What would you guys like to see happen?”

“We do things differently.” That’s the motto of Manchester, England—and if you’re walking through the city, it doesn’t take long to see that it prides itself on its innovation and creativity. I’ve been fortunate to spend my 20s here, learning from the legacies of changemakers both past and present. So many of the city’s most impactful figures have been—and still are—artists working directly with communities.

Inspired by the people, creatives, and communities around me, I spent the second half of my 13 years in Manchester founding The Untold Orchestra, a “non-classical” collaborative orchestra that centers community engagement. But this piece isn’t about Untold. It’s about an Art City—that is, a place where arts interventions are prioritized and supported by the people who live there, and then rewarded with community, creativity, and positive social change.

In a white-walled, sunlit room with arched ceilings, an El Sistema-inspired youth orchestra plays Gustav Mahler’s well-known “Bruder Martin” (“Frère Jacques”) theme—the third movement of his Symphony No. 1—under the direction of teaching artist/conductor Leila Weber. The two double bass players are six feet tall, around sixteen years old; the youngest cellist might be seven, and this is the second time she’s held a cello. Embedded among the second violins is a guest teaching artist from an orchestra based 500 miles away.

Climate change is a complex, often overwhelming issue, causing many to turn away or disengage from conversations about it. That’s where music comes in. Just as we share this planet, we share the language of music. And when we speak it, we have the power to restore our planet’s health and build a thriving network of changemakers.