Silent in the Face of Oppression: What I Would Have Done Differently

Write about a time when you didn’t take action but wish you had. What would you do differently?

The platform I use to publish this website gives me little daily writing prompts as inspiration. Sometimes I use them immediately, sometimes I save them to write about later (and in all actuality, leave them to languish in my “drafts” for eternity). When this one popped up on my screen, I knew exactly what I needed to write about, because as much as I try to live without regrets, this is one of the few that I still cling to for some reason.

I cut my teeth as a musician and performer in the worship team of the church of my youth. Normally I’d leave it unnamed, but honestly, Metro City Church doesn’t deserve that dignity. Not after the events of this story, at least. I will be honest — my time on the team was an amazing once-in-a-lifetime experience. I had the honor of playing with some of the best musicians I’ve ever met, and on the largest stage I’ve ever played. Imagine a slightly scaled-down version of whatever comes to mind when I say “megachurch,” and that’s basically what we were. A mini Hillsong in the heart of Downriver, with one of the largest congregations in the entire area.

Every week or so, I’d stand up on that stage and play my heart out for the Lord, which is still one of my favorite ways to connect with the divine. Giving credit where credit is due, I think Metro lit a fire for music and worship in me that still burns to this day. In fact, I still play in my current church’s worship band every now and then. But playing on Metro’s stage was nothing short of amazing. We had all the lights, fog machines, a state-of-the-art audio system, we had in-ear monitors for Christ’s sake (literally!). My point is, for all the smack I’m about to talk when it comes to this church, they did do something right, and that something was music.

The downside was that the church’s politics leaned a bit further right than I would have liked, but in the pre-Trump days, this was easy enough to ignore. Like, I’d get the occasional unprompted “ew, you like Bernie Sanders?” from the pastor or his kid, along with a lecture on why Bernie Sanders sucks. Again, this was entirely unprompted — it’s not like I was wearing a Bernie Sanders shirt, or had a Bernie Sanders sticker on my guitar case, or even brought up Bernie Sanders in conversation, ever. They just knew I was one of the small tribe of progressives, mostly fellow musicians who’d giggle irreverently at the post-worship breakfast about sappy “pro-life” messages or whatever subtle jab the lead pastor decided to throw at the libs that day.

For the most part, though, I could look past it. Sure, the church supported anti-choice measures and preached the dreaded “love the sinner, hate the sin” message when it came to the queer community, but these topics came up so rarely that I didn’t mind. Metro was one of those insidious religious institutions that disguised itself as a “come as you are” church, welcoming everyone and trying to cast as broad a net as possible, as to not alienate anyone. But beneath the surface, those ideologies still lurked. I know way too many gay/trans folks who were duped into feeling safe at Metro, only to get hit with a nonchalant homophobic or transphobic quip from a member of the congregation.

I wasn’t out at the time, and I was married to a male member of the church, so I was marked safe from most of these comments. As far as anyone knew, I was a regular, God-fearing, heterosexual woman. But I knew in my heart I wasn’t straight, not entirely, or even mostly. I had to push down a lot of my gay fee-fees to fit in with the rest of the church, which is why I came out as late in life as I did.

Everything changed in one moment, though.

I still remember the burn of the stage lights and the eyes of the congregation as I stood on the stage, guitar in hand, while the pastor rattled off a list of upcoming events. It wasn’t unusual for him to come up and make announcements between songs like this. But one of the upcoming events he named this time shook me to the core: a conversion therapy class for young women.

Here’s where I should have done everything differently. I should have thrown my guitar down and walked off that stage. Screw subtlety — I absolutely should have made a scene. Instead, I froze. I stood there complacent in my own oppression and complicit in the abuse of these girls.

Thankfully, this was the beginning of the end of my time at Metro. As controversy swept over the church throughout the local (and even national) queer community, I found myself torn between the church I loved, who I thought loved me, and my own gut instinct that this was not fucking okay. I even posted a tone-deaf defense of the church, claiming not all of us were raging homophobes, and my ally friends (rightfully) called me out for trying to defend them at all. I knew I had to do something.

So I came out. In front of everyone. I’m queer. I’m one of those girls. I’m on your side. And I’m so glad I did, because the act of finally admitting it to myself led me to leave a marriage my heart wasn’t in and marry my best friend instead. I left the Metro and never looked back, settling on a truly inclusive Methodist church that practiced what Christ actually taught, instead of the Americanized evangelical crap propagated by hipster megachurches.

But I still wonder what would have happened if I’d walked off the stage that morning. It still eats at me that I was silent in the face of oppression and hate. What does that say about my integrity? I’d like to think I’ve grown exponentially since then. I’d like to think that should I be placed in that situation now, I’d stand up for myself and for those girls. The Bible teaches that real love is laying down one’s life for their friends; the least I could do is lay down my pride (and probably get excommunicated, but as they say, que será será).

I don’t hate Metro, at least not the people there. They’re lost in the sauce just like I was. Love the sinner, hate the sin, as those circles always say, and while I hate what Metro stands for, I know there’s still some decent people there fighting the good fight to make it the loving, affirming safe haven it could be.

Well, maybe if the lead pastor would stop doing *this.*

Yeah, I’m being too optimistic.

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Here’s to the Future

I’m usually good at coming up with things to write about myself, but every now and then, I like answering the little prompts on here. Just for funsies, ya know? And this one felt fitting, considering the fact that at the time of writing, I recently turned 30 and have literally just finished coursework for my music therapy degree that took more than a decade to complete.

Where do you see yourself in 10 years?

I want to start this off with a song — “I Want It All” by one of my all-time favorite bands, Queen.

This song has been my mantra throughout the past few years, ever since I decided I was done sucking at life. Like, I was stuck in a marriage I rushed into for the wrong reasons, I had a burgeoning drinking problem, my mental health was in the toilet (as if it had ever been anywhere else), my music career was DOA, and I couldn’t even finish my damn degree, having dropped out of the program twice. I thank God for my brother. As complicated as our relationship is at times (for reasons that would take a whole other blog post), he’s the one who intervened when I was thisclose to driving my car into the fucking river.

I have a band that I really should talk about more on here called Wake Up Jamie, and one of our songs is called “I Hate My 20s.” It’s exactly what it says on the tin — a song about how much it sucks to be in your twenties. I didn’t write it, and I don’t sing it (my bandmate Hailey does), but I relate to as if I wrote it myself. Sometimes I feel like I wasted my youth being a crap sack of a person, but I think everyone feels that way to an extent. As much as we idolize being young, it’s kind of a struggle to figure things out, and most people take a minute to get it together.

That being said, I’m excited for these next ten years. I feel like I’m finally confident in who I am as a person and have some sort of direction in life. I don’t have it all figured out yet, but I’m a hell of a lot closer than I was ten years ago, when I was still wide-eyed and optimistic about everything. I’m still optimistic, just in a different way. I’ve seen how low life can get, and yet there’s always been a way out of it. There will always been rain, but it doesn’t last. The sun will rise in the morning.

I realize I still haven’t answered the actual question, but in ten years, I imagine myself finally living the dreams of my youth, with a life full of love and music. I want to have a family of sorts, with children of my own. I can already imagine a little curly-haired Cadence Amirah singing along to the songs written by me and my friends, her own mixtape of music from people who love her. My wife will stay home with the kids while I go to work at some prestigious university, performing research that shapes the world of music therapy. In addition, I’d like to have a private practice and recording studio where clients can work through their struggles while recording an album. I want to work with clients of all diagnoses and walks of life, but of course, there’s a special place in my heart for neurodivergent folks like myself. Maybe I’ll have an autistic client who gets to write music about his special interest in a world that wants him to shut up about it. Or maybe I’ll have an ADHD client who can revel in producing a song, the first thing she’s ever accomplished on her own after a lifetime of hopping from project to project without finishing anything. It will be rigorous work, but so rewarding. Aside from music therapy, I want to write songs and either perform them myself or send them off to Nashville or LA to be recorded by people more famous than me. I want to pen that one hit song that secures my legacy as a songwriter and a livelihood for my family.

I don’t know where I’ll live. I’d like to stay in the Midwest so I can remain close to my girlfriend, who I have every intention of building a life with as well, but the details are up in the air. Saugatuck is the goal, as a gay little vacation town in western Michigan, where we can have our idealistic lake house filled to the brim with oddities of every sort, from vintage Pokémon merchandise to colorful crystals of every size to a dinosaur skeleton. I’d commute to Western Michigan University every other day or so in order to teach or perform research, and have a humble studio in Saugatuck where I’ll spend most of my days. At night, I’ll go home and watch the moon on the water from my back porch and enjoy the life I’ve built for myself, sipping some Red Bull margaritas or nonalcoholic wine and playing guitar for my wife and kids.

I’m getting goosebumps writing this all out, and the crazy thing is, this can actually happen. I think back to when I just turned 20, how different my life looked from now. I imagined a day when I’d have my own little apartment and a significant other and a cat to share it with. I dreamed of having a band I considered family, just like the ones I saw on Behind the Music as a kid. I remember when I’d never set foot on a stage bigger than the corner of a coffeeshop, and we just played Arts Beats and Eats last summer! I’m exactly where I hoped I’d be ten years ago, and while not everything is perfect, I’m content with the way things are going. I think 20-year-old me would be pleased.

And ten years from now, I hope I feel the exact same way.

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To a Much Older Me

Write a letter to your 100-year-old self.

Dear Jess,

You’re 100. At least, hopefully you live that long. Or rather, we live that long. I’m you, only 30! Remember those days? When we were living in Clawson with Krubby, who is now probably a faded tattoo on your saggy thigh skin. When our parents were alive and you had Crass and Livvy and so many friends who are probably all gone now. God, I’m making myself cry just writing this. But I’m slowly learning that nothing lasts forever except love, and it’s better to have loved someone and lost them than to have never loved at all. It’s a hard truth to swallow, but I’m coming to terms with it.

I don’t know exactly what to say to a 100-year-old me, except that I hope we accomplished everything we set out to do. I hope we got to start that family and get those degrees and write the songs that changed the world. I hope when we’re gone, our legacy lingers long afterward. I hope you never lost your childlike wonder and big dreams, even after shouldering the weight of a century of life. I hope you still have imaginary friends who live in the universes you created in your head. I hope you finally got that “Dr.” in front of your name, which is definitely still Salisbury (we’re not making that mistake again). I hope you dyed your white hair pink and wear all the tattoos of memories we made with pride.

I hope you can look back and be proud of me.

It hasn’t been an easy journey, making it to 30 years, and I’m sure it hasn’t been easy making it to 100. I know so much has changed — change is the only certainty in life. But we’re strong enough and brave enough to weather whatever storm we may face. We made it through mental illness, betrayal, loss, regret, and more hurt than one should have to bear, and yet, we’re still here. We made it. Hell, at the time of writing this, I’m staring down the music therapy degree we’ve been working toward for twelve years. I did that. You did that. And who knows what else you’ve accomplished in the time since I wrote this little post!

Maybe you’re reading this from a nursing home, where you’re definitely the little old lady everyone wants to befriend. Or maybe you have that lake house you’ve always wished for, and you spend long evenings looking out on the water reminiscing with Cadence about all our adventures when she was little. Maybe global warming made the planet uninhabitable and we’re like, on the moon or dead or something. There’s no way to know for sure, and that’s both the scary and exciting part. I don’t know how the story ends, but as long as you lived your life to the fullest, I know it will be a happy ending.

There will only ever be one Jessica Joyce Salisbury, and as her story comes to an end, rest easy knowing that she’s content with the way it was written. Relish that feeling of completion.

May the rest of your days be filled with joy and happiness.

Love always,

Jess