By a guy who thought he was heading to a classy evening of culture… and absolutely wasn’t prepared for what happened instead.

Last weekend, the neighbors and I went to see the famed Richmond Symphony Orchestra. And I have to say, they did not disappoint. It wasn’t merely music — it was an explosion of melodies that seemed to massage the ears, rattle the ribs, and stir up every good-feeling emotion still available in my system.

People like to say that music is the language of the soul… unless you’re an engineer. Then it’s the sensation of drinking an insane amount of coffee while juggling panicked anxiety and a sprinkle of math tossed in for cruelty. But let’s not dwell on good times.

Now, here’s where things went sideways. We genuinely thought we were going to a one-piece orchestra — you know, maybe a lone violinist doing something impressive while the rest of the orchestra politely supported them, or perhaps a pianist surrounded by people pretending to play triangles. I didn’t know. I honestly thought it was a clever play on words.

Instead… it was a full, thundering symphony with One Piece as the theme. As in the anime series. As in the stretchy pirate boy and his friends. As in the thing the kids binge with religious devotion. I was blindsided.

What truly made the experience shine was the crowd — people from every imaginable walk of life. Not the usual symphony regulars who stare down their noses like Beethoven personally left them the keys to his wine cellar. No. This time the music came from One Piece, a global cultural tidal wave I’d somehow managed to avoid until that night.

The kids came in colorful droves: blue hair, green hair, full pirate costumes, anime outfits, and a good number sporting the main character’s hat. Meanwhile, we — a respectable assembly of older humans — arrived dressed in traditional symphony attire minus the ties. Because we thought we were heading into something snobby and classical, not… whatever technicolor festival this was. And yet, we didn’t feel out of place at all. The whole event was a brilliant celebration of diversity — age, interests, hair color, skin color — all of it. Judgement was entirely absent.

At intermission, I overheard a mom — mid-40s, cheerful — telling her kids that “the most powerful one is stretchy!” She had solid reasoning too. Later, I would learn that stretchy’s name is Luffy. Monkey D. Luffy. Everyone else in the building seemed to know this already.

Even the bar was transformed. Instead of the usual symphony fare, we had Snickers, Twix, M&Ms, Swedish Fish — which, apparently, is the food of the youth. More Pepsi sold than alcohol, which frankly was refreshing. Not a single wobbly person navigating the hallways afterward. Wonderful.

During the performance, the orchestra blasted away while a big screen flashed lyrics. And people sang along like it was the classiest karaoke lounge ever. Filipinos would’ve turned the place into a festival. The songs weren’t even in English — they were in Japanese. And yet the audience sang with conviction, clapped when beloved characters appeared, and lived every moment.

Who would’ve imagined that in the heart of Virginia, you’d find people who look like they stepped straight out of a Republican fundraiser… singing Japanese anime songs with absolute joy? In these divided times, that feels like a small miracle.

And if I learned anything that night, it’s this: the next generation might actually have a chance — a real one — to soften or even erase the hate that’s been poisoning our society.

All it took was an orchestra, a stretchy pirate, a mountain of candy, and a room full of strangers happily singing in a language none of us spoke.

There’s hope yet.

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