Remembering Dad: A Eulogy of Sorts

It’s been a week.

I’ve been dreading this moment for my entire life, ever since I learned the concept of death. I knew that when it finally came for my father, I would be beyond devastated. I distinctly remember curling up under my parents’ bed as a toddler as if hiding from death would stall it somehow.

But last Wednesday, my mom called me and told me to say goodbye to Dad. I was dumbfounded and didn’t know what was happening, but I uttered a weak goodbye through tears. He took his last breath with me on the phone.

It’s been a week. I’m still catching myself crying here and there. It’s getting better. But it’ll never be okay. I miss my Daddy, and I’ll never stop missing him. There’s a piece of my heart that’s forever gone now.

I try to think of the good things when I feel down, which is partially why I decided to immortalize him via this blog post. He didn’t receive a proper funeral, which was his and my mom’s wish, as he was never into formalities. But apart from the Woodstock story, which I told in my last post, there are so many tales of my dad I would have wanted to tell as part of his eulogy.

Like, I’ll never forget the time we were all driving around — him, my mom, and me — and we passed by an old building that we’d passed by many times. Only the signage had changed, and it was now a taxidermy shop. Except my dad had no idea what taxidermy actually was, so he kept insisting it had become a tax place. Meanwhile, my mom and I were like “It’s taxidermy! They stuff animals there!”

(He eventually listened, but I’m pretty sure I had to point out the deer painting on the sign for him to get there!)

Another time, I get this call, and he says he’s driving up from Downriver to where my wife and I were living in Ypsilanti to bring us six pounds of cheese — in a snowstorm. I told him he didn’t have to, but he insisted. It took him an hour, and I bet he was white-knuckling the whole time, but he made it. And he gave me the biggest hug when he got there.

That’s always how he was. His love language was finding out what I liked to eat or needed in my everyday and buying it in bulk. I can’t tell you how many times I’d be going throughout my day and I’d get a call from him at Sam’s Club or Costco or BJ’s or wherever the hell he was shopping. He’d always ask me if I needed anything, and every time I visited home, he’d load up my car with toilet paper, jugs of Arnold Palmer, huge bags of popcorn, and more. He loved being a provider.

I got a good chunk of my love for music from him. He always hummed little mindless tunes to himself as he did things, a habit I still have to this day. He never went out of his way to listen to music, but he loved the stuff that I played for him. He had good taste — he did go to Woodstock, after all. And he was my biggest cheerleader when it came to my own music career. He bought me my nylon-string guitar when I went off to study classical in college. He’s part of the reason I went to school for music — I was going to go into pre-med, but he knew music was my passion. He’s the reason I went to university at all, actually. He always pushed the importance of education and hard work.

I’ll miss his speech patterns. I’ll miss how he’d say “warsh” instead of “wash,” going as far as to talk about “Warshington” or “warshing machines.” I’ll miss how he’d mix up words like the time he called my older siblings “Kay and Jelly” instead of “Jay and Kelly.” Or how he’d call my cat Krubby “Scrubby” and always ask how his grandkitten is doing. I think what I’ll miss most is when he’d call me silly nicknames. Meatballs was one. I was especially fond of Sweet Pea. That was the name my grandfather called me when I was in the womb, I believe. He died shortly before I was born. My dad made sure it lived on.

The story that stands out to me the most, though, is the story of when my wife and I first got together. I’d never been in an openly queer relationship and I wasn’t quite sure how my parents would react. I’d “soft” come-out to my mom as a teenager, but she’d initially brushed it off. I had no idea what my dad would say. So when he found out my now-wife and I were dating, he called me up all serious-like, saying “We need to talk.” So he scoops us both up, takes us to the local Coney Island, sits us down, and basically says screw what anyone else says, he loves and supports us unconditionally. That is what real fatherly love looks like. And I’m so glad I got to experience it, even if only for 32 years on this planet. Some folks never get to have a love like that in their lifetime. I know I was greatly blessed.

My greatest regret is he won’t be there for my symbolic wedding to Olivia, whom he also adored. In the last few weeks of his life, all three of us visited him, and it almost felt like getting his blessing. I never outright told him that we were polyamorous, but I feel he knew, and he just wanted me to be happy. He entrusted them with making sure I’m taken care of, and they promised him they’d give me the best life possible. He died knowing I have a strong support system.

My father was my rock, and it’s a little scary to realize I’ll never be able to run to him again. But he’s still there with me, somehow. I’ve been seeing him everywhere. The stupid William Hung cover of “Circle of Life” was playing at the bar when I went with my closest friends the night my dad’s death. At first it felt insulting, but then it felt weirdly poetic. We used to love watching American Idol together when I was little, especially the “bad” auditions. And it made me smile a little. I think he’s watching out for me. He’s got a sense of humor. I know, because I’ve got that same sense of humor. We gave each other dad joke and silly cat calendars for Christmas every year. (He’d send me the best dad jokes when he sent me my mail from home.)

I knew the song had to end eventually, as every song has to end someday. But I’m glad I got to experience the music that was my father’s life. I’m glad I had him to teach me to dance. And now that I can stand on my own two feet, it’s up to me to keep his song and spirit alive.

Here’s to the greatest dad who ever lived.

Reflections on Music, My Late Father, and a Phish Pilgrimage

I write this as my Chicago trip draws to a close. And man, am I glad I won’t have to type “I’m in Chicago” to people every five minutes, as I suck at typing the word “Chicago.” I swear I always write “chichi” or “chacha.”

Anyways, Chicago isn’t exactly a place people go to for spiritual enlightenment, but this trip was different. This trip came on the heels of my father’s death a few days prior. I’d had this trip with my bandmate planned for a little while, and I’d contemplated cancelling it, but sometime told me to go anyways. This trip was to see Phish, and, ya know, my dad had gone to Woodstock. The OG hippie music event.

You *know* I would have been this bitch had I gone myself.

I got the invitation from my bandmate and one of my best bros, Chris, who’s always buying tickets to see someone. Me, I very seldom buy tickets to see mainstream or larger artists. Most of the times I’ve gone to see someone bigger than Warped Tour-level, it’s been because a friend thought “Hey, Jessa likes music” and had no one else to go with. Which, I mean, I will never turn down a free show. It’s how I’ve seen Muse, KC & the Sunshine Band, Kiss, Motley Crue, Van Halen (WITH Eddie!), and so many more awesome as hell artists live. If you put out into the world that music is your entire life and just be nice to people, you will manifest concert tickets. At least I do, somehow.

Anyways, we get to Chris’s cool vegan sister’s studio apartment and I’m already high as balls because this is a Phish concert and if I’m going to see a jam band, I’m gonna do it right. That is to say, with a copious amount of a certain herb that is legal in the great state of Michigan. And Illinois, albeit way more expensive.

There is a speakeasy that has THC shots, to be fair.

And we get there and I’m just full of this nervous energy. I can’t explain it, but something’s in the air as we’re standing outside waiting to go in the stadium. At one point I eulogized Chris’s beloved signature hat that he’d worn during his stint with Wake Up Jamie by singing “Angel” by Sarah McLachlan, and some lady thought it sounded nice, even though I was just being silly. Then we got inside, and the munchies hit all at once. Cue me buying not one but two ice cream cones.

Then the show itself started and it was not at all the vibe I was expecting. I’d never listened to Phish but I knew their reputation as a stoner band, so I was expecting something a little more subdued and shoegazey. Instead, the first song was fun party music! I found myself actually dancing a little, although not as intensely as the old men around me, especially the one who literally spun around in a little clockwise circle the entire time.

Sometimes you just gotta spin around like a clock.

As I stood there with my little ice cream cone listening to these guys play, I studied the music in my head. At one point, there was a musical phrase that just didn’t resolve, and led into an explosive jam. It was uncomfortable and different, and I realized I haven’t been listening to music that challenges me lately. I haven’t been listening to music that makes me get tingles because of some weird cadence I’ve never heard before. Really, I think I’m just intimidated by new music in general. It’s part of why I never checked out Phish before — the archive panic. After all, my first awareness of Phish came after I discovered a compendium of their music and lore years ago at a Borders (really dating myself). All I remember aside from it being rainbow and really pretty was how it rivaled the actual Bible in length.

Someday several millennia from now, Phish will be revered as gods.

And that’s the thing about being at a Phish concert. I was aware that I wasn’t a native Phishhead (DuckDuckGo tells me the correct term is “Phan”). This was not my territory, and I wanted to be as respectful as I would want someone else to be at a Heart show. I don’t know shit about fuck when it comes to Phish, and I won’t pretend I do, but as a tourist in their world, I felt strangely welcome and at home. Some of the guitar solos brought a tear to my eye, and it was a reminder of how spiritual of an experience music can be.

The next day (as in today, the day that I’m writing this), Chris and I went to a Baha’i temple in the Chicago area.

This picture doesn’t do it justice. It’s a beautiful work of architecture. That’s not what made me tear up, though. When we went inside, we were greeted by a beautiful a cappella chant led by a single man. It was absolutely soul-invigorating. This trip ultimately made me re-appreciate the way music has been there for me spiritually throughout the years, even in non-spiritual contexts. Like karaoke, or a Phish concert. It truly is a divine gift. As one of the founders of the Baha’i faith wrote:

“Music is one of the important arts. It has great effect upon human spirit … music is a material affair, yet its tremendous effect is spiritual, and its greatest attachment is to the realm of the spirit.”

I’ll never forget one of the last conversations I had with my dad. He was the extrovert. If you’re ever wondering where I get my outgoing nature from, it’s him. The man never met a stranger. You could be standing next to him in line at Meijer’s and he’d strike up a conversation with you about sports or the news or what-have-you. Anyways, I’d heard him mention Woodstock, but he’s been known to embellish stuff here and there, so I wasn’t sure if this story had actually even happened. But when I went to visit him last, I decided it was time to ask him.

He said he saved for two months to go because he knew it would be a big deal. All his coworkers made fun of him for it, but he didn’t care. He drove up there with some folks and stayed in little hotels along the way. At the site of the festival, they slept in a 20-man tent, and music went all throughout the night. He said he came to the festival with six friends and left with 28.

And that’s the power of music. It brought him together with those folks, many of whom he said were his best friends for years after the event. It brought me closer to him as he shared that story with me. And as I watched that Phish concert, I felt a sort of kinship to my dad and to everyone who’s ever been moved by music.

The thing about music is it’s not forever. Every song has to end sometime. But I’m glad I got to experience the song that was my dad’s life, even if it did have to end.

AI Killed the Radio Star: How Technology is Crushing the Culture of Music

I wasn’t sure how to answer this prompt—

What bothers you and why?

—until my girlfriend and I had a conversation on AI. Which is not unusual, since she’s a pretty staunch advocate against it. I’m fairly neutral on it, to be fair. I think it opens up lots of exciting possibilities, and it’s a tool like anything else, but at the same time, there are multitudinous problems with it that no one seems to want to address. Hell, I experimented with it against my better judgment and realized it was making my imposter syndrome so much worse. The unfortunate truth is we’re just going to have to learn to adapt to this somehow. There’s no putting this genie back in the bottle.

But it’s disheartening, because the advent of AI might be the final nail in the coffin of the music industry. And that is what has been bothering me lately.

And the sad truth is, the state of music has been in decline since the dawn of the internet. In fact, Suno is just finishing a job started by Napster all those years ago and continued by Spotify to this day.

Back in the 80s, everyone and their mother knew who Michael Jackson was. You only had a handful of radio stations in any given town to listen to, and if you wanted to hear a particular song any time you wanted, you had to go out and buy it. The albums would be prominently on display in your local Kmart. Even grandma was familiar with Bruce Springsteen’s ass.

Television isn’t as much of a special interest to me as music, so I don’t really care as much about its history, but you can see this kind of monoculture in TV throughout the years too. In the beginning, you had ABC, NBC, and CBS (and DuMont, the weird fourth one no one remembers). Everyone in your city was watching The Andy Griffith Show at the same time on the same channel and having this shared experience. Then cable came and divided everyone. If you were into sports, you went to ESPN. If you were into music, you went to MTV. If you’re into watching Amish people do mundane things, you went to TLC. Even the big cable networks splintered eventually — from MTV you get MTV 2, MTV Tres, VH1, VH1 Classic, CMT…

And none of them are playing music at any given moment.

With more technology, you get more options. But I’m starting to wonder if that’s a good thing.

We’re seeing a shift in music especially. We no longer have a monoculture, and I blame this on how easily accessible the entire catalogue of music is nowadays. If you want to listen to nothing but obscure pirate metal for the rest of your life, you don’t have to go on a wild goose chase hunting down every obscure pirate metal album ever made by every band that’s ever done obscure pirate metal. It’s as easy as going to a specialized Spotify playlist. And let’s say you want to listen to nothing but obscure pirate metal about your cat for the rest of your life. With AI, that’s entirely possible.

Why on earth would anyone seek out new music if they can just beep-boop an entire playlist tailored to their specific taste with lyrics reflecting their own life?

I think that’s what bothers me most about the future of music and how it has been intertwining with AI. I’m not scared of it taking my job necessarily, at least not in the traditional sense. I know human-made stuff is still largely superior. I’m really not even so afraid of the environmental stuff, since the planet’s borked anyways (I’m an optimist). It’s the death of culture and interpersonal connection that scares me. A survey said 62 percent of people actually prefer chatbots to humans. There are people straight up dating AI bots. How much more isolated are we going to allow ourselves to get?

My prediction is that eventually, this AI bubble will burst — but not without seeing huge reforms to the music industry. I can’t see the current model lasting much longer. I can see a return to smaller, more intimate shows as people get sick of how overflooded music platforms are with AI slop, low-effort music, and whatever the executives are trying to feed us. At least the true music fans will pivot that way.

Humans have a thirst for something real. It’s why American Idol always pushed artists with sob stories. We love when the art we consume comes with a captivating backstory, and entering a prompt and pushing a button was a cool backstory — the first thousand times it happened. Like, if you told someone in 2018 that a robot wrote the music for this song, that would be some neat Futurama shit. But the fact that technology can beep-boop songs from scratch is old news now, and people don’t want manufactured backstories. There was already a recent backlash against a band that was revealed to be AI. People are quick to turn on an artist when they sense disingenuousness. Remember that author who penned an autobiography that got noticed by Oprah, only to have it all come crashing down when it was revealed the story was fabricated?

The hidden controversy is the sensory nightmare that is that book cover.

I think the music industry is going to change in a lot of ways in the upcoming years. My hope is that we musicians don’t become obsolete and that the human need for connection and genuineness is stronger than the fleeting coolness that is AI. And I think we do have a need for real, human-made music. You can’t replace the camaraderie of your local punk scene or the chills a live orchestra brings or the sheer joy of going out to karaoke. Music in our souls. It’s what humanity sounds like.

If you enjoyed the writing in this post and elsewhere on the site, please consider donating to Jessa’s tuition fund! Any help is appreciated!

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Autistic Joy: Little Things That Make Neurospicy Brains Happy

It’s rather unfortunate that autism has the less-than-favorable reputation it does. Sure, it’s more accepted than ever, to the point where it’s trendy on TikTok to claim neurodivergence (a trend I have mixed feelings about if I’m honest). But many on the spectrum still feel misunderstood by the public, with only 16 percent of autistic folks and their families feeling people actually “get” them and many choosing not to interact with the world because of it. It’s a big reason I’m self-diagnosed — when my childhood psychologist suggested the “A” word back in the early 2000s, my well-meaning parents ran the opposite direction, afraid their beloved daughter would get saddled with a label that would get her further ostracized by her peers. My girlfriend had a similar experience growing up. And then you have people like RFK Jr. who say — and I quote:

“[Autistic people will] never pay taxes, they’ll never hold a job, they’ll never play baseball, they’ll never write a poem, they’ll never go out on a date.”

So yeah, it’s pretty clear the world looks down on us for being different, which, to be fair, has always been the case. It’s never been “cool” to be autistic, right? Why would anyone want to be on the autism spectrum?

Here’s where I’d say “Wrongo, partner!”

Definitely read that in her voice, by the way.

There are lots of special kinds of joy that come with being autistic, or even ADHD and similar kinds of neurospicy. There’s been quite a bit written on the neurodivergent love languages, many of which I feel are closely connected to the kinds of neurodivergent joy. That neurodivergent joy is what I want to write about, because I saw it at work amongst me, my ADHD wife, and my AuDHD girlfriend this past weekend when I took them to my hometown. That brings me to my first joy:

1. Sharing Lore

Taking my partners back home was such a cool experience. I got to share so many parts of my backstory with them, parts I couldn’t show them without taking them to the exact place in time where my story unfolded. I could point out my high school, the Dairy Queen I went to as a kid, all my favorite plushies in my childhood bedroom, and so much more. It’s all part of my lore, as I’ve started to say. Sharing parts of your past with your loved ones scratches the same itch as infodumping, except in this case, you’re infodumping about yourself!

Hearing other people’s lore helps us connect to them as well. This past weekend, my dad regaled us with the story of how he saved for two months to go to Woodstock, despite his coworkers making fun of him, because he knew it was going to be a big deal. He ended up going with six friends and left with 28. I knew music was a big part of my family’s lore, but I never truly knew the extent to which my own father was present for a huge moment in music history. Just taking that time to talk to him gave me a lot of joy.

2. Sharing Media

During the trip, I allowed my girlfriend, Livvy, to take control of the hotel television, since she has some sensory stuff regarding talking and background noise. Most of the time, she left the TV off and the three of us, ya know, engaged with the outside world. But when we got back to the room every night, Livvy would search for one of her childhood favorite shows, Zoom. She loved that show so much that her grandparents taped it and sent it to her so she could still watch it after it went off the air. And now, she wanted to share it with us!

I can’t express how happy she was that we not only took the time to watch what she wanted to show us, but actively participated in it as well. We started daydreaming funny skits and science experiments we could do in our spare time, like the kids on the show. We even had our favorite cast members and tried doing the “ubby wubby” language ourselves (with little success). Livvy was so pleased we were as into the show as she was!

3. Being Around Other Neurospicy Folks

When you’re wired differently, it can be exhausting masking in order to fit in with polite society. Masking is typically associated with “higher functioning” autistic individuals, as shitty and outdated as that terminology is (we prefer people refer to our support needs instead of the “high and low functioning” labels). As someone who’s gotten so good at masking that many outsiders aren’t aware I have the ‘tism in the first place, I can tell you it’s absolutely exhausting. It’s a form of hyper-vigilance and suppressing natural urges. You basically have to water down your entire personality.

But when you’re in a group of other neurodivergent people, you can let all of that fall away and reveal your true self. I don’t have to pretend to be interested in mundane things. I don’t have to make eye contact (which is scary as hell to me if I’m honest). I don’t even have to say words. I can communicate in noises if I want to, and oftentimes, that’s exactly what my partners and I do! It’s freeing to not be restricted by social norms and expectations.

4. Researching What You Love

I (probably rightfully) get a lot of crap from my loved ones for being too glued to my phone, but I’m going to let you all in on a little secret. If you see me on my phone, there’s a very small chance I’m texting a friend. More likely than not, I’m reading!

I’ve always been like this, and I’d be the first to admit that had smartphones not been invented, I’d have to carry a huge bag of books around with me everywhere I go. I’m always reading something or other, usually nonfiction, and usually about one of my special interests. I love reading about creativity, spirituality, or whatever library book has captured my attention most recently. When I was a kid, I’d hide in the nook between the kitchen and the bathroom in my grandma’s house, right where she kept a complete set of Encyclopedia Britannicas on a bookcase, and just study them for hours. I kind of miss physical books, if I’m honest, but I love having the ability to read about anything and everything at a whim nowadays. It’s a kind of special joy.

5. Being Respected

Obviously we love researching things, but we also love getting recognized for our research too! We love the thought of being an expert in our field of interest, even if it’s not a formal area of study. For me, music theory is a big area of interest. I do have a degree in music, which does make me feel good about myself, but even more than that, I love when people tell me that I’m knowledgeable. Even more than that, I love when I get a chance to demonstrate my knowledge. When someone asks me why a song works, I’m always happy to explain things like chord progressions and the circle of fifths and why those concepts are important in popular music.

I think that’s why it almost feels like a personal slight when we don’t get the respect we require as it involves a particular special interest. I still remember the one of the only times a non-music professor made me feel like shit about my abilities and know-how. It took me years to recover and get back to a place where I felt confident about myself in music again. We autistic and ADHD folks are so sensitive to the slightest criticism — we’re prone to rejection sensitive dysphoria for a reason — but the flip side is that we get an even stronger sense of pride from positive feedback.

Which of these “joys” do you relate to the most? Leave a comment below! And as always, if you enjoyed the writing in this post and elsewhere on the site, please consider donating to Jessa’s tuition fund! Any help is appreciated!

CashApp: $TheJessaJoyce

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America the Broken: A Fourth of July Rant

I am an American, and I’m fucking tired.

Of course our dick-tater-in-chief and the lovely folks who are SUPPOSED to represent the people had to pass the Big Bonkers Bill the day before Independence Day (and no, I’m not calling it “beautiful” — absolutely fuck that). Now, Medicaid is going to be gutted, affecting millions of people who rely on it for healthcare, including yours truly. Like, am I paranoid for thinking that they want us to die?

So yeah, America. I don’t think you deserve a birthday party this year. In fact, finding some way out of this godforsaken country is sounding more and more enticing as this presidency goes on. My wife has brought up moving to Germany, and the rest of our polycule is on board if we can swing it somehow.

But believe it or not, I’ll miss this fucked-up place. Because America is still my home, and as odd as it might seem, I still have a lot of love for her.

You might even call me…*gasp* a patriot.

Cue eagle screech (that’s actually a hawk).

In fact, when I was a teenager, I was the official national anthem singer for my high school’s sports teams. It was a great gig, and it was great performance experience, and I got to ogle the cute basketball players, but the coolest part was how it felt like what I was doing was important. I was serving my country with my voice, dammit!

As I got older, I remained loyal to my homeland, even as the cracks began to show. I realized how messed up it was that we don’t have universal healthcare while like, every other developed country does. But that didn’t make me hate it here as much as it made me want to change it here. And at the time, it felt like change was possible. Obama was in office and gay marriage got legalized and everything seemed to be progressing and going in the right direction.

Then of course, 2016 happened.

At the time I wasn’t out yet and was (unhappily) married to a man, so I wasn’t in full panic mode yet. But here, almost a decade later, I’m openly queer with a black nonbinary partner and a neurodivergent trans partner and honestly, I’m scared to death. Because I’ve seen what the people in charge want to happen to them for being those things, and it looks a little like this:

There is no writing a witty caption for this picture.

I don’t want to imagine my country ever stooping to the level of Nazi Germany, but things are getting scary. Even some Holocaust survivors are seeing unsettling resemblances to their experiences. I didn’t think anything like this could ever happen here. We have representatives. We have a Supreme Court. We have votes and the first amendment. And yet…

Yeah, I think we’re done with witty captions.

I love my country. I love my state with its beautiful lakes and my little city with a silly name. I don’t want to leave this place behind. But if I’m honest, I’m afraid. I’m more afraid than I’ve ever been. I don’t know what’s going to happen, if my friends and family are going to lose their healthcare or get imprisoned or die. This is why I write. I write to draw attention to things that need attention. I write to humanize my experience and my loved ones’ experiences. I write because I do love my country and want the best for it. In a way, I’m still using my voice to serve my country.

I just want the nation I grew up loving to be back again. I realize the US was never truly free. Our past was built on the backs of slaves and the indigenous folks we steamrolled to get this place. But I’d like to build a better future for us, one where all people are free, equal, and happy.

I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

Nonbinary Enough: The Awkward Realities of Being an AFAB Femmby

So, I’m technically nonbinary.

This isn’t a coming out post. In fact, I’ve been pretty open about it since I realized it a few years back. Yes, I know I’m a woman, and yes, I do use she/her pronouns for the most part, but it hit me that there’s more to the story. I’m not just a woman or just feminine. I’ve realized I have some definite masculine energy, and I’ve been going out of my way to honor that little man inside me.

Like, I did drag!

His name is Richie Styx and he’s a British rock star. Think a less-sucky Russell Brand.

I’ll be honest, though. Sometimes I feel like a massive imposter when I enter nonbinary spaces. Like I said, I am an AFAB femmby. In fact, I blend in perfectly with cis women until I mention the fact that I’m nonbinary. And until I open my mouth, to be fair. A lot of folks recognized me as queer even before I came to terms with it. I guess I just have that vibe.

Conservatives will tell you it’s because I had blue hair.

But I don’t really embrace or shout about being nonbinary to the same extent that I shout about being pansexual or even polyamorous. And I think to some extent, that’s due to the fact that I’ve gone all in on being pan/poly. I’m literally dating a woman, married to another nonbinary person, and casually seeing a couple of guys. I’m out here living as visibly pansexually and polyamorously as possible. But — like I mentioned earlier — most people would have no idea I’m nonbinary until I say something.

So when I enter spaces for nonbinary folks, I almost feel like I’m a fraud. And it sucks because I still feel some of the negative stuff that comes with the territory of being nonbinary and don’t really know how to address that. I definitely have some degree of dysphoria, but there’s really no feeling gender euphoria for me unless I could literally shapeshift between being Jessica Rabbit and a hot twink at a whim. There are things I wish I could change about my body to make me feel more androgynous, but I’m talking like, adding an extra head of height to myself. Testosterone wouldn’t do shit for me — I’d just get hairier, smellier, and hornier than I already am, and that sounds like a nightmare for everyone involved.

Real picture of what I’d look like on T.

There are times I straight up don’t feel nonbinary “enough” to call myself nonbinary, because I’m comparing myself to other folks who are transitioning medically to mold their bodies into what they want. I realize this is a very transmedicalist viewpoint to hold, and one I’m trying to unlearn. I know there’s no right or wrong way to be a woman, and no right or wrong way to be a man (okay, there are a few wrong ways.) Why is there a “wrong” way to be nonbinary, then? If anything, being nonbinary should be the most liberating of the three mainstream options, since there’s no predetermined social roles for us in Western civilization. It’s a relatively new concept in our culture (although it’s existed in other cultures for millennia).

I’m starting to realize, though, that there is a place for everyone at the gay table (gay-ble?), so long as all folks are treated with respect. There is no “Queer Olympics” and it’s not a competition to see who can be the most unambiguously, outwardly queer. Some folks can’t be openly queer for safety reasons, and we need to save them a seat at the table as well. The nonbinary people who don’t mind presenting as their birth gender, and the ones who present as their birth gender to keep from getting hate-crimed, and even the ones who present as their birth gender because they’re just tired of correcting people — they’re all valid. We’re all valid. I say “we” because yours truly has very much been in all of those situations I listed.

I’m glad I’m nonbinary. I feel a lot of freedom in the way I go about the world and represent myself. Although I present mostly as femme, I get a lot of joy out of letting my dudely side out too, to the point where both of my primary partners have questioned if I’m actually transmasc! For the record, I don’t think I am. I’ve just got a little man inside me, and I like to honor him every once in a while.

To be clear, here is the little man I am picturing.

Stepping Into My Own “Barracuda” Moment

Let’s talk about Friday night.

I’ve been sitting on this blog post for a few days now as I process what happened at karaoke on Friday. Here’s the SparkNotes version of the events.

Basically, I was already riding high from a very successful music bingo night that I’d just hosted at a different bar. That part is important because had I not been in such a powerful mood already, I probably wouldn’t have been able to do what I did. I got to Old Dog Tavern (shout out to one of my two favorite bars in Kalamazoo!) around 10 I think and met up with one of my bandmates and best friends, Ellie. We were just outside on the deck probably sharing a joint with a few friends or something when we both headed inside for some reason. Not ten seconds after we stepped inside, some crusty short old white dude with a Colonel Sanders goatee in a green hat came up to us. He reached his shriveled hands within an inch of our titties and made a honking motion, remarking “Eh, isn’t this how you greet women?” and shyly begging “Can I?”

I saw red. It was enough that this fucko disrespected me, but also poor little Ellie, who is for all intents and purposes a little sister figure to me. I pushed back through the doors to where my wife, Crass, was sitting outside, and all I had to say was “creep,” “tried,” and “grope” and she was equally livid. We both bursted back inside, her to find the pervert and me to make a fucking statement.

I ran up to the stage and grabbed the microphone. Fuck whatever else was going on. This man had to be stopped. I screamed to stop the music, took the mic, and with all of the pent-up rage of 32 years worth of creeps thinking they can test me, I declared:

“Nobody is allowed to sexualize me and my friend without our consent.”

The bar bursted into a frenzy of confused looks and claps, save for one asshat heckler in the front who yelled “Too late!” like a goddamn Reddit troll in real life. This made me even more angry, and I lunged toward him, grabbed him by the collar to make him look me in the eye, and said “What the fuck did you say?” At that point, Crass had turned her attention to the heckler, and she literally chased the whole man out of the bar. The original pervert got tracked down and kicked out as well, and the whole time, I was shaking and crying and in shock at what I had just done.

I — the bullied little girl who had to eat lunch in the library to avoid being pelted with ranch dressing packets — finally stood up for myself.

Then, the most amazing moment happened. The whole bar rallied around me, encircling me physically with their bodies and figuratively with their love. I sunk into my friends’ arms and let out all of the emotions that had built up.

Because I was no longer scared. I felt like I had become something new. I stepped into who I was supposed to be this whole time. Like, there was something deeply spiritual about what happened that night. My good friend’s girlfriend said it’s a Leo moon thing. I keep drawing powerful feminine cards like The Empress and the Queen of Wands, the latter of which is a card that’s always resonated with me, though I couldn’t place why at first. I always thought I was more of a Cups girl — soft and emotional — not a fiery, passionate Queen of Wands.

I’ve mentioned my ridiculous admiration for Ann Wilson, frontwoman of the classic rock band Heart, on here many times, and it’s fitting that this particular night was the day after her 75th birthday. I wanted to be her so bad growing up, to the point where I’d study her singing and her performances and her fashion sense and even her personal life, as stan-ly as that sounds now (give me a break, I was an autistic child). One thing I learned when reading about her childhood was the fact that she was bullied extensively too, like me. She was overweight; I was underweight. She had a stutter; I had undiagnosed ADHD and autism. But I saw myself in her. Hell, I created a cringey wish-fulfillment OC based on her! She gave me hope that I could someday be the badass rocker chick I desperately wished to become.

That night at karaoke, that’s exactly what I did. I became that woman. The take-no-shit rock and roll queen who isn’t afraid to call a fucker out.

After the creeps were exiled from the bar and karaoke resumed as normal, the DJ (who may just be the best cishet white man this side of Steve Irwin) asked me if I was okay and if there was anything he could do. I had one request, because I knew exactly what my last song of the night would be.

Back in the 1970s, Ann and her own (actual) little sister, Nancy, were frequent victims of slimy men in music venues, especially since rock was very much considered a man’s world back then. The iconic “Barracuda” was written as a response to some guy backstage who made a creepy joke toward Ann at her sister’s expense, insinuating their relationship was incestuous. Absolutely filled with unbridled rage, she wrote the scathing lyrics that would eventually become the now-legendary song.

And that night was my “Barracuda moment.”

I got on stage to a roar of applause. It’s funny because a while ago I wrote a song half-joking about wanting to be “Kalamazoo famous” instead of actual famous. In that moment, I really did feel like a small town celebrity. With what little was left of my voice after cussing out the pervs, I sang my musical heroine’s battle cry, dedicating it to her for helping me find my voice — and to every man who ever intentionally made a woman feel unsafe in a bar.

I left the best part out. After everything was said and done, a young woman came up to me and quietly thanked me for what I did. She’d been victimized by the creep too. It made me realize how much power we have as women to lift each other up and protect one another.

I want to carry this night with me whenever I feel like I’m not strong enough to stand up for myself. Because now I know I have what it takes. I’ve seen it. My friends have seen it. The entire city of Kalamazoo has seen it.

I have more power than I thought.

Grandkids and the GOP: How the Drive to Live Forever Fuels Conservativism

I think I cracked the code.

Like, I know why the other half of the population just doesn’t seem to get it.

It’s babies. It’s always been babies.

Of course, just look at that shit-eating grin.

Well, and death. Just follow me for a second.

I was recently reading about a fellow named Ernest Becker, who won a Pulitzer Prize for his 1974 book on death. In this book, he asserts that humans are driven by their primal fear of death and no longer existing in the mortal realm. Because of this, we unknowingly take on “immortality projects” meant to carve our name into history in some fashion. For some, including myself, this looks like creating art or music or stories that will last long after we’re gone. For others, this may look like accumulating lots of wealth, then dumping it into a cool institution or organization you believe in to get something named after you. And for many, many folks, their immortality projects are their progeny.

And that’s where things get sticky — because a lot of older folks are realizing their children and grandchildren don’t want kids of their own.

And if your kids don’t have kids, your bloodline is essentially over, you’ll be forgotten, and nothing you ever did amounted to anything.

Seriously, this fear explains so much about the psyche of older conservatives. It explains the anti-gay stance, as one could traditionally only reproduce with someone of the opposite birth sex. It explains the anti-trans stance, as HRT typically borks your reproductive system (and a lot of people don’t know about options like sperm banks for preserving fertility after transition). It explains the anti-abortion stance, since you don’t want your daughter to go off and abort your grandchild. I’d argue much of the conservative worldview stems from just three little words — “I want grandkids.”

And the wild thing here is that I actually get it.

I mean, I wanted to be a grandma someday. But mostly so I could nap and watch game shows all day.

That ever-present fear that I’ll just die and eventually be forgotten without accomplishing anything great is one of my biggest fears too. I’ve actually written about it extensively on this blog. I understand where these people are coming from, even if our ways of handling that fear lead us to vastly different belief systems.

A while back, I had this conversation with one of my coworkers at the caregiving gig I picked up recently. We got on the ill-advised topic of politics, and she told me she voted for our current administration “because of her family.” And I told her I had voted against it for my family. My wife is black. My girlfriend is trans. Our future children will likely be neurodivergent. This isn’t the world I want for them. I don’t want them to live in fear.

And so I keep finding myself going back to the same question — what makes my coworker’s family more important than mine? The fact that she’s straight and white and neurotypical? And yet, we’re really not all that different. She, like me, just wants to leave a legacy. Maybe her legacy will look different than mine, but that’s the beauty of the human experience. We each get to choose what our legacy will be.

That’s why these pushes to put as many babies as possible in as many wombs as possible will inevitably fall flat. People usually have a good idea of what they want out of life, and if that’s not children, that should be the end of the story. Family planning, birth control, and issues relating to fertility are personal and private. It’s no one’s place to tell anyone they should bring kids into this world. And that includes parents pestering their own children for grandkids.

But I do get it. I hate the thought that I might someday be forgotten. That’s part of the reason I write this blog — so there’s some record I actually existed one day after I’ve left this mortal realm. I always think back to that scene in Coco, a film I absolutely adore but can only watch very seldom due to the heavy themes. Like, a whole man evaporates as the last person alive who remembers him dies. And that fucked me up.

I write this because I feel in order to defeat the rise of fascism in this country, we need to understand why people voted the way they did. We need to know how we got in this position. Burying our heads in the sand and pretending the opposition are all irredeemable monsters is not how we win people to our side. Seeing people as fully human and acknowledging their dreams and fears is.

Because at the end of the day, when you set aside all of our differences, every person just wants to carve out a permanent place in the story of humanity.

Following Your Heart: Lessons From My Lifelong Muse

Last week, my best friends from the Kalamazoo karaoke crew stole me away to Detroit for the night to see my childhood heroes, Heart. And let me tell you, it was magnificent.

And bittersweet.

And oddly galvanizing, in a strange way.

To think my lifelong obsession began with this American Idol performance I watched in my parents’ living room one evening as a wee 10-year-old. I remember thinking out loud that it was a really pretty song, and so my mother beckoned me to her cassette collection as if to show me a clandestine secret.

And there it was. The Rosetta Stone that would decode my entire direction in life.

I’m also fairly sure Heart invented Pokémon with this album cover.

I’d never heard anything like it before. That voice, it was almost unreal. I was already captivated by the audio, but then I managed to catch the music video for “Alone” on VH1 (and recorded it onto a VHS tape, natch) and by God I was mesmerized.

I mean, Nancy Wilson, the guitarist and the younger of the two sisters, was beautiful. As a young blonde girl who’d just picked up guitar herself, it was expected for me to gravitate towards Nancy. Everyone in my life asserted I was a little Nancy. But the sister who really stole my heart was the raven-haired, soulful-voiced siren, clad in all black, with a longing gaze that burned into the CRT screen of my childhood TV.

That would be Ann fucking Wilson, and suddenly, I didn’t want to be a veterinarian or a racecar driver when I grew up. I wanted to be her.

I’m not actually goth — I just watched this music video too many times as a kid.

In fact, I think this particular album cover made me realize I was into girls:

Better than the album cover that made me realize I was *also* into guys.

Ann had become my biggest musical inspiration, my baby lesbian crush, and perhaps most importantly, somebody I could see myself in. I remember my favorite cringy OC from my middle school stories and how it was essentially just Ann Wilson but like, with a cool outfit and a hot boyfriend too. At the time, I was a far cry from the effortlessly cool rocker chick I desperately wanted to be, but I still had hope.

Because Ann wasn’t always the effortlessly cool rocker chick either.

In fact, when she was a kid, she was just like me. She was bullied relentlessly, same as I was. For her, it was a stutter; for me, autism. For her, it was being overweight; me, I was scarily underweight. I remembered finding out about her struggles and felt an odd kinship with her. In a way, she felt like my big sister, the one who went through hell first so she could show me the way through.

That’s why the show felt so bittersweet. In a way, I felt like I was saying goodbye to an old friend. Because — and it hurts my heart to admit it — I don’t know how much longer I’ll have her. She did recently beat cancer, which makes her even more badass, but I’m not naive. Even if she is in otherwise perfect health, she’s not getting any younger, and who knows how many more years she’ll be able to tour. Same with most of my musical heroes. The remaining members of Queen will eventually die. There will someday be a world with no Bon Jovi. And after my pantheon of boomer musicians have passed on, I still have to watch all the gen X musicians I looked up to perish. And after them, it’ll be my generation.

But despite sobbing on three separate occasions at the show, I left that night feeling strangely empowered. Because one day, Ann may be gone, but she’ll live on in my heart (pun only slightly intended). And I’ll carry on her legacy as best as I can by creating beautiful music and giving it my all at every performance I do. I owe so much to her, because she’s the one who made me realize I could be whoever I wanted to be. I didn’t have to be a scared bullied kid anymore. I could be a rock and roll baddie. It’s kind of funny — a few days ago, a woman at my music bingo show said, and I quote:

“You know who you remind me of? The singer of that one band. You know, Heart?”

Music, Failure, and the Weight of the World: A Small Rant

So I was let go at Guitar Center.

It was the professional equivalent of a relatively amicable breakup — my boss saw me struggling to even make it in on time due to my insane work schedule, and so she mercifully allowed me to quit with no hard feelings. I’ve never been fired, and this doesn’t even really count as a firing since I left on my own terms, but it still stings.

I’m not a stranger to failure, despite it rivaling death and abandonment as one of my biggest fears. Leaving the internship in Fort Wayne felt like a huge failure after everything I’d put myself and my wife through in order to finish my music therapy degree. I wasted so many years in school and have absolutely nothing to show for it. That was a rough moment in my history, but I managed to claw my way out of the dark depression it sent me into.

I don’t know how much clawing I have left in me, though. My fingertips are bloodied and raw. I’ve struggled enough.

This is all on top of the weight of the world, which has been crushing me with every disheartening story that passes through the news cycle. We live in a truly evil world where people get their kicks by literally kicking others down. Some bitch got hundreds of thousands of dollars for calling a child the n-word. How is it that terrible people get rewarded, but actual good people get fucked over? There’s still a whole bunch of bullshit happening in Israel and Palestine to folks whose only sin was being born in the wrong place at the wrong time, and don’t even get me started on the mess that is my own country at the moment. I wish I could just leave, but it’s not that simple. I can’t leave my family and friends and partners behind, so my only choice is to stay and fight the good fight, wherever that leads me.

But like I said, I’m don’t know how much fight I’ve got left. I’m fucking exhausted. The one thing that’s kept my spirits up at all is music and the prospect of someday becoming a successful musician in some form, but I’m afraid of becoming obsolete. I’ve already mentioned on my blog how dabbling with AI software started to bork my creativity, but like, what’s the point of writing songs when I can push a button and make the robots write one for me? And that’s the future we have to contend with. I’m not a vehemently anti-AI Neanderthal — I think there are legitimate uses, even in the art and music fields, and I’d be a hypocrite if I said I’ve never used it. Like, sometimes I’ll use AI to test out acoustic demos with a full band so I know whether or not the song is even strong enough to work with. But I’d never, ever release something to the public that I didn’t create myself. And I’m realizing most people don’t operate with those kinds of creative ethics. So as AI music becomes more prominent, I’m going to have to compete with a torrential onslaught of “creators” cranking out slop. Like, how long until we have an AI popstar?

But even if I didn’t have robots to compete with, I’m still racing against time. I’m 32. No one wants to listen to grandma sing her little songs, and I’m practically a grandma already to the suits who run the music industry. I remember when I was a freshman in college, it was a big fucking deal that Carly Rae Jepsen, who was at the height of her “Call Me Maybe” era, was 26. I’m six years older than that, and I have yet to make any significant waves in the industry. The music video for “Sweet Honey” sits just below 100 views, which is next to nothing. I can’t help but wonder what would have happened had I moved to Nashville or LA in my youth, but it’s too late now.

And even if I was still a hot twentysomething ready to take on the music industry, you have to remember, the music industry has changed. A lot. It’s damn near impossible to make money with streaming. And there’s no such thing as rock stardom anymore. Unless you’re Taylor Swift, Chappell Roan, Sabrina Carpenter, or Beyoncé, no one knows who you are, and no one cares. Monoculture is dead. Back when you had to listen to music on the radio, people could bond over hearing their favorite songs together. Now, everything is so fragmented. If you want to listen to nothing but progressive zydeco pirate metal, you can just search for bands that fit that perfectly in that very niche and never bother putting on anything else again. Vinyl sales are up, but that’s not gonna help your up-and-coming local band that’s still getting off the ground and doesn’t have thousands of dollars to drop on printing physical records. Which leads me to the biggest problem.

It costs too damn much to “make it” in the creative fields.

I could have moved to Nashville had it not been prohibitively expensive. I could sink all of my time and energy into recording quality music if I didn’t have to work three jobs for the privilege of breathing air. The famous folks you know and love are largely only there because they were born into money and had multiple safety nets to catch them in case of failure. Taylor Swift’s wealthy upbringing has been the subject of much scrutiny, but even one of my personal favorites, the aforementioned Chappell Roan, had a charmed life, growing up in a sprawling gated home that looked like this. I’m livid that the music industry and this entire country as a whole demands you be born with a silver spoon in your mouth, or else what you have to say or contribute isn’t important and you should just fuck off and die. It makes me viscerally angry, the amount of talent we’ve lost to poverty. The next Jimi Hendrix could be just around the bend, but if that kid’s parents can’t afford to get him a guitar and lessons, too fucking bad.

It’s a cultural crisis. And I’m scared I’m becoming one of its casualties.

I want to make it in music more than anything, but I’m so disillusioned at this point. I’ll never be a rock star. I’ll never be John Frusciante. I’ll never be Ann Wilson. The best I can hope for is some steady gig where I can make the music I want to make and earn a decent living, but there’s not a lot of jobs like that out there, especially not here in Kalamazoo.

I don’t want to end this post on a negative note, as many things in my life are going well. My dad was recently hospitalized, but he’s made a speedy recovery. My two primary partners have been incredibly loving and immensely supportive of me, and I might have a third partner who is also very sweet if I play my cards right. My dream pedalboard is finally finished, and since moving to Kalamazoo, I’ve got more friends than I can keep track of. I do have a lot going for me, but there’s always that part of me wondering when the other shoe is gonna drop. And a big black cloud hanging over me as of late is my frustration with, well, everything.

But I’m going to keep pressing on. With Guitar Center out of the way, perhaps I’ll have more time to work on the songs I want to get recorded and produced. Maybe I can sink more energy in the podcast I started with my best friend. Maybe I can even sleep a full eight hours like a normal person.

I’m trying to be cautiously optimistic, but optimistic nonetheless. That’s all I can really do.