I’ll admit I haven’t been the best Christian this Lent. I didn’t give anything up, mostly because I know I’ll just slip up a few weeks in (great attitude to have, am I right?). I haven’t been to church because I’m too lazy to find an affirming church in Fort Wayne, and I haven’t even done my 40-day devotional every single day because, well…
It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me.
But I had to learn a few worship songs for a client I have next week, and it got me in weirdly spiritual mood for once. So I decided to re-download my Bible app and pick a psalm at random, just for funsies. I was born at 1:08 pm (or was it 1:11 pm — I can never remember), so I picked 108. The opening verse hit me like a ton of bricks:
My heart, O God, is steadfast;
I will sing and make music with all my soul.
Psalm 108:1
And I cried. I cry at absolutely everything, but this cry was different. I cried because I think God was trying to speak something to me through that verse.
I am exactly where I need to be.
I was a bit discouraged this week about my music therapy journey. I had my worst session ever on Tuesday (which was my birthday, to add insult to injury). My supervisor had nothing good to say about it. No redeeming qualities. Nada. If I’d spent the entire session watching grass grow with my client, it would have been more productive. And it would be different if it were a one-off problem, but I’ve had ongoing issues with me just not being able to read client or parent behavior. I don’t talk when I’m supposed to, or I talk when I’m not supposed to, or I say too much. I’m positive it’s a neurodivergence thing, but it’s not very reassuring to realize that the problem is something inherently wrong with your brain wiring. I can’t fix autism and ADHD. I’m just sucking at this because I naturally suck at this.
It’s me, hi…
As of writing, I’m at the annual music therapy conference of the Great Lakes region, and it’s disheartening to see all these certified MT-BCs that started their journey with me, or even after me. It took me twelve years to get where I am, in my internship, and during that time, all my cohorts went on to get their degrees and start their careers. I’m meeting people younger than me who are already established professionals. All of this, on top of the roadblock that was my Very Bad Session and my continual failing to people correctly, and it would be so easy for me to give up. I should just be a pharmacy technician, right?
But that’s not why I was put here. And that one little verse was the reminder I needed to keep going.
I wasn’t put on this planet to pass out Wellbutrin prescriptions. I was out here to make music, and more specifically, to heal the world through music. It’s in my blood. Music is as natural to me as breathing, and I want to use it to make the world a better place. Reading Psalm 108:1 was like the part in Moana where she remembers who she is and realizes her power. “And the call isn’t out there at all, it’s inside me. It’s like the tide, always falling and rising. I will carry you here in my heart, you’ll remind me that come what may, I know the way.”
I AM MOANA!
I will be a music therapist. There’s no other option. Just like Moana on her little boat, I’ve come too far to turn back now. I will sing and make music with all my soul, and nothing will get in my way.
Earlier this week, I made a pilgrimage to Fort Wayne, Indiana for my internship interview, and who would I be if I visited my girlfriend’s home state if I didn’t visit my girlfriend at some point?
I’m the “long distance lesbians” stereotype meets the “four hours is nothing to Midwesterners” stereotype.
The drive from Fort Wayne to South Bend isn’t too bad, mostly passing through the endless open fields the Midwest is known for and a few odd cities. But one thing I noticed fairly often while traversing Indiana (aside from corn) was the presence of billboards like these:
I’ve been a Christian most of my life, and although I’m not much in the way of a traditional one, I believe the core tenets, including the whole “forgiveness” thing. I know the ubiquitous verse — “So God so loved the world” and all that. I know everything I could possibly ever do wrong in this lifetime has already been forgiven. I’ve never been afraid of Judgment Day, whatever that will look like.
So why am I still scared of dying?
I think about it more than I’d like to admit. It’s a dark cloud looming over my brightest days, a little nagging fear surrounding the fact that my days are numbered. I can’t wrap my mind around the fact that one day, I’ll just cease to exist, and I’ll never have the chance to do anything else. All my dreams will have remained just that — dreams. All unfulfilled, all forgotten.
There’s so much left I want to do in this life, so much so that it’s overwhelming at times. I want to be a music therapist. I want to be a songwriter. I want to be a mom. I want to be a professor. I want to publish my stories. I want to live in a little house by a lake. And it sucks to think I might not be able to get to do everything I want to do. I only have, what, 80 years or so if I’m lucky? And I’ve spent 30 of them being too mentally ill to do much of anything. Logically I know I’ve accomplished a lot in the past three decades, but I’m always scared I’m running out of time to finish everything I want to do.
So no, I’m not ready to meet Jesus.
Maybe it is a sign I need to lean more into my faith, I don’t know. God knows everything that’s ever happened and ever will happen, and His plans are greater than my own. But as much as this should be a comfort to me, it’s almost worse to acknowledge that everything is ultimately out of my hands. My future is already decided for me, and what if it’s not a future I’d want for myself? What if I’m doomed to be a pharmacy technician for the rest of my life?
Not my ideal destiny.
I guess I need to accept that I don’t have all the answers, and I never will this side of Heaven. I just wish I could live in the moment and not worry about these things so much.
While I was still married to Josh, the church we attended was a huge part of our daily lives. We were so immersed in the life of that church, we didn’t do much outside of it. I cut out most of my friends who didn’t attend, not intentionally for what it’s worth, but I felt I didn’t relate to those friends anymore. I even stopped talking to your mom as much, despite her being my best friend. She never as much as saw the inside of our condo.
But the church wasn’t perfect. I knew about its political leanings before I jumped back in, having been Facebook friends with many of its attendees. Many were diehard conservatives who’d eventually drink the Trump Kool-aid, some even progressing to QAnon conspiracies and the like. And most mourned the day gay marriage was legalized, which rubbed me the wrong way. But Jesus was bigger than petty politics, right? He didn’t care if I voted for Bernie Sanders, even if the pastor’s kid gave me the side-eye for it. This church was where I felt the most connected to Him, and that was what mattered most, I thought.
There was a small collective of progressive folks, mostly other musicians in the worship team. After playing, we’d sit in the break room and eat our breakfast, discussing whatever off-color joke about “those libruls” was said during service that morning. We were renegades in the sense that we didn’t adhere to absolutely everything the pastor taught, which was scandalous for a church that emphasized that their way was the “right” way and no other path was valid. We did wild things like have gay friends and believe in universal healthcare. Josh was a fringe part of this group — I think he had trouble letting go of the teachings of his family, which were even more reactionary than that of the church, if that can be believed. At least the church played rock music.
But for the most part, there wasn’t any tension between us and the rest of the church. We were able to coexist peacefully. In fact, politics and social issues were seldom brought up. There’s an insidious kind of evangelical church that preaches acceptance for all, that puts on a pair of hipster skinny jeans and plays guitar and pretends to be young and relevant, but as soon as you’re comfortable within the culture of the congregation, smacks you over the head with the classic line —“love the sinner, hate the sin.” Which is almost always directed at queer folks, mind you. But as long as no one brought up gay and trans rights, it was never addressed.
Until one Saturday evening service, that is.
I still remember the burn of the stage lights beating down on my face, the way my guitar felt in my hands, and the sound of the pastor’s voice as he announced it.
A conversion therapy class for teenage girls.
I thought I was going to be sick. I should have stormed off the stage. I should have made a scene. I should have stood up and told him, in front of the entire congregation, that what he was doing was fucked up. But I didn’t. I stood there like a good little sheep and did jack shit about it. But I knew the storm was coming.
And as expected, word got out that my church was hosting such a class. And people were rightfully furious. Like, “protesting in front of the church” furious. Here I was caught between these two worlds, the church I’d dedicated my life to serving and what I knew in my heart was right. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t think these people I was serving alongside were evil, but they were doing something that was unequivocally evil. Love the sinner, hate the sin, as they always said, right? But I wanted to make a stand somehow. I had to show these girls I was on their side. That I was one of them.
So I came out. Publicly. For the first time ever.
Reactions were mixed. Most people weren’t surprised to hear I was pansexual — I’d already had a pretty homoerotic relationship with your mom. There was some pushback from the church elders, and the pastor cornered me to tell me how I was so wrong. I didn’t care. The blatant homophobia of the church should have pushed me further into the closet, but instead, it emboldened me to live more authentically.
I stayed at that church for a few more weeks, praying I could change it from the inside, but you gotta know when you’re fighting a losing battle. These people were stuck in their ways. As much as I hated to admit it, as much as I hoped their so-called love of Christ would soften their hearts, there was no saving them. So I left. I found a church out where I worked that accepted me — all of me. Most of the other secret progressives trickled out as well, finding affirming churches or abandoning religion altogether. I couldn’t blame them, for if my faith was any weaker than it was, I probably would have done the same. But I stayed strong in my belief that there is a God, and that He loves wildly, without conditions, and without prejudice.
In a weird way, I’m glad my old church showed its true colors the way it did, because it gave me the push I needed to stop lying to myself and everyone else about my sexuality. Had things continued the way they were, I would have never left, and I would have never come out, and I would have never married your mom or fallen in love with Olivia (I’m not sure what parental title she has yet, but she likely helped me create you, which is really cool!). I am where I am now because I took a stand. My only regret is not walking off that damn stage when I had a chance. I hope when you’re faced with prejudice, you’ll be even stronger than I was. Walk off the stage. Throw a fit. Make a scene. Let the world know that shit doesn’t fly. I pray you have courage where I didn’t.
This weekend has been a test for me. I bought two nights at a hotel in South Bend, IN so I could go with my girlfriend to a music festival…and then my tires blew out. Damn.
I’m in this picture and I don’t like it.
Needless to say, my bank account is around -$187 right now, and I couldn’t get a refund on the hotel, so I’m currently in another state with absolutely no money to my name.
But I’m not as worried as I should be. Because I know God will provide a way for me, one way or another. He always has and He will again.
There’s a verse I love about how God will provide in times of trouble:
“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air: They do not sow or reap or gather into barns—and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?”
Luke 12:25-27
He makes sure the birds are provided for, and He loves us even more than them! We’re His kids, and what a good Father we have! Even when times get rough, I fully believe things will come together in the end. They always have before, and they will again.
Don’t worry yourself sick, but trust that you’re in good hands.
I just finished a fantastic book by Jordan Lee Dooley called Embrace Your Almost. I picked it up on a whim while shopping at Target, and let me tell you, it was full of exactly what I needed to hear.
I just got passed over for my dream internship. After dropping out of the music therapy program twice and fighting with all my might to get through all of the program’s coursework, I fell just short of where I wanted to be. Again. I was almost pissed at God for letting me down once more. Couldn’t He snap His fingers and just make me a music therapist already? I didn’t know what I was doing wrong. I had everything planned out perfectly.
But our plans are not His plans. And as I learned through this book, things don’t always turn out as expected. God uses these moments where we fall short of achieving our dreams to refine us, to break us down so we can rebuild stronger than ever.
As Ecclesiastes, my favorite book of emo poetry — ahem, Biblical wisdom — states, there is a season for everything under the sun. If our dreams feel like they’re not progressing, perhaps it’s a sign that we need to slow down and take time to work on ourselves. Maybe it’s a boot camp season, as Dooley puts it in her book, where we put everything we got into becoming the best versions of ourselves so we’re ready for when the next adventure calls.
I’m learning to slow down and enjoy this stage of life, even if I’m not where I ultimately want to end up. If you haven’t achieved your dream just yet, remember there’s a reason why this is exactly where you need to be right now. God makes no mistakes — He’s the author of all of our stories, and everything will work out in His timing.
It’s been three days since my last argument with a Facebook asshole about LGBTQ stuff, and I’m still simmering from it. I think I let things like that affect me way more than I should. Maybe I really am a bleeding heart hippie.
Can’t we all just sing “Kum-Ba-Yah” together?
It’s not easy for me to sit back and just take it when randos are slinging homophobic/transphobic slurs, suicide jokes, and even pedophilia accusations against you and your favorite people. Why are some folks so eager to say disgusting, slanderous things about entire groups of people they don’t even know? It literally baffles me — I can’t wrap my mind around it. I wouldn’t say things remotely as heinous against strangers I simply don’t agree with. My momma raised me better than that.
I’m tempted to call these people evil, but I won’t. I will call it as I see it — their actions are evil —-but to borrow a phrase so often weaponized against the queer community, “love the sinner, hate the sin.” You see, the opposite of love isn’t hate. It’s fear. And these people are lashing out like scared dogs at things they don’t understand.
The Bible itself says “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear” (1 John 4:18). When you don’t understand something, the human tendency is to fear it. And often, that fear becomes hate. When I was a kid, I was afraid of the dark because I didn’t know what was hiding in it. I hated being in the dark for that reason. But the dark was never bad — I just didn’t understand it.
I think these people who blindly hate those who are unlike them simply don’t know love. I understand that many people didn’t have a lot of love growing up — maybe their families were abusive, or perhaps they were bullied. That will lead to a life of fear, and a life of fear is a life of hate. The antidote is love.
Whenever I see transphobic memes online, I think of my girlfriend Olivia. I can’t wrap my mind around how anyone could possibly hate her. But they don’t know her like I know her, because to know her is to love her. I wish everyone had an Olivia to show them what love means.
So instead of letting fear win, let love in. Show love wildly, recklessly, with no remorse. Love your enemies. Love the people who persecute you. Love the people who call you names or make nasty accusations or tell you to kill yourself.
Welcome to my inaugural Sunday morning coffee, where I take a spiritual lesson I’m learning and share it for everyone. I’m not going to pretend I’m this enlightened guru or pastor — I’m just a random weirdo with a blog who likes to write about this kind of stuff. But I feel like I can bring an interesting perspective to the metaphorical table when it comes to scripture, spirituality, and the like, being a queer eclectic Christian married to a mostly agnostic Jewish woman.
So I was doomscrolling through my Facebook updates when I noticed a friend posted this:
I don’t even have a witty caption for this.
To say I was livid would be an understatement. My blood is still boiling as I type this, and anyone who knows me will tell you I don’t anger easily. To compare my right and my loved ones’ rights to simply exist as ourselves to the most heinous crime against humanity is fucking disgusting and nearly irredeemable in my eyes. And then I clicked on this so-called friend’s profile. He was a Christian?! This man is claiming the name of Christ while posting shit like this? Nothing short of sickening.
What does the heart of God say about anger? It’s easy to fall back on the “seven deadly sins” as a measure of what’s right and what’s wrong, and wrath is right there in that list. But anger isn’t necessarily wrath. When our rage is directed toward something totally justified, we call it righteous anger. In Matthew 21, Jesus Himself demonstrates this.
Jesus entered the temple courts and drove out all who were buying and selling there. He overturned the tables of the money changers and the benches of those selling doves. “It is written,” he said to them, “‘My house will be called a house of prayer,’ but you are making it ‘a den of robbers.
Matthew 21: 12-13
Maybe we need to start flipping some tables. Maybe we need to start using this anger at how our supposed brothers and sisters in Christ are treating people and cheating people. Maybe we should be calling out posts like the one above when we see them pop up on our timelines. Silence never changed anything. Righteous anger makes us want to speak out for the oppressed and the downtrodden, the “least of these.”
I made the mistake of deleting the person who made that post, because I knew I was going to tear them a new one if I didn’t. But what I should have done was use my anger to call them out, gently but firmly. Anger when unchecked turns into wrath, and things can be said that legitimately hurt others (and hurt our own case in the process). On the other hand, righteous anger, when channeled by a spiritually mature person, can be used for good. Open discussions, engage in debates, and let people see the light of Christ through you. If you have to flip some tables, flip those tables, but remember the person behind them. They’re broken too.
So there’s this old song by a band no one remembers called “Happily Ever After.” In it, the singer, Bethany (I don’t know if that’s her name but she sounds like a Bethany), croons about how she hopes God gives her story the ending she desires. “Author of the moment, can you tell me, do I end up happy?”
I’m being informed by Google that her name is actually Rachel and judging by the haircut worn by no straight woman ever, she ended up gay.
It’s been hard lately to surrender to the unknown future, and as of late, the future feels more unknown than ever. I have my music therapy internship interview this upcoming week. My band is starting to get some attention. I’ve been considering a number of additional paths, such as becoming a writer and teaching music full time. And my heart still longs for a child, as stupid as I feel for saying that. I sound like the “my biological clock is ticking” women I made fun of when I was younger.
Every day feels the same, but I know things are slowly changing. The future needs time to cook, and I need to let it simmer for a while. I know logically I can’t rush things, but I want to get to the next stage of life so badly it hurts. I want to know I’ll have my little girl and my unconventional yet happy family and that it’ll be cupcakes and roses for everyone involved. I want to know that my career will be successful, whether it’s music therapy or playing in a rock band or something else entirely that I haven’t figured out yet.
There’s this book I just finished called You Are a Badass by a writer named Jen Sincero. The logical side of my brain considers it a little too foo-foo at times — you’re telling me I can manifest anything by wishing for it hard enough?! — but there’s some value in being thankful to the universe for all of the possibilities it could give to you. She writes of having gratitude toward God or whichever higher power you like the best as if you already have the thing you desire, and then surrendering that thing to the Universe. That’s what I have trouble with I think. The surrendering part. I hold onto things with the tenacity of a particularly angry dog.
THESE ARE MY DREAMS, UNIVERSE. NO TOUCH.
I’m in the best position I’ve ever been in. My band is on the verge of something great, I’m about to finish my degree — finally — and I have not one, but two significant others whom I love with my entire heart. There’s still room for things to go awry, however, and that’s what scares me. What if I don’t get this internship? What if one of my partners gets sick of my bullshit and leaves me? And — the one that hurts the most to think about — what if my little Cadence never comes to be? I don’t know if I could handle that.
I wish life were as easy as it were in The Sims, where I could press a few buttons and enter a cheat code and everything I ever wanted would be right there waiting for me. Maybe it is there, like Sincero said in her book, and I just need to manifest it. I should be grateful for all these possibilities that are coming my way, but it’s so hard to shake the nagging feeling of something will go wrong.
I think the real power comes in trusting that God/the Universe will provide an even cooler alternative if I don’t end up getting what I want, like how He provided a Black Sabbath tribute band after my wedding reception when the fuddy-duddies at the church I got married at didn’t allow dancing at the shindig itself. (There’s a reason that marriage didn’t last, but at least I got to party with Ozzy freakin’ Osbourne.)
The only Prince Charming I needed was the Prince of Darkness himself.
There’s a verse in the Bible that talks about how God works all things together for the good of those who love Him (Romans 8:28). That’s what I’ve been meditating on as of late. It hurts to surrender my plans to Him, but I know He’s got my best interest at heart. The Author of the moment knows more about the storyline than I do. I think back to everything I thought I wanted years ago. Had I reached Taylor Swift levels of fame and fortune, for example, I probably would have thrown myself into a meat grinder by now, with all the pressure and scrutiny weighing on my mental health. My desire to be the biggest rock star on the planet wasn’t from God — it was from me — and only in retrospect do I realize that achieving that dream would have been my ruin.
Still, I’m worried about a lot of things. I’m worried I’ll never get my real dream wedding with either of my partners. I’m worried we’ll never have our kid. I’m worried I’ll never get to go to the UK to meet my long-lost cousin/penpal. I’m worried I’ll never get to live in a little home by the lake. I worry a lot more than I let on. But I’m learning to trust that things always seem to work out for the best in the end.
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.
OPEN UP THAT PIT
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.
“Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve!”
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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Everyone sucks. It’s a pretty well-established fact of life. I suck. You suck. Your mom sucks. Hilary Clinton sucks. Donald Trump sucks. The Queen of England sucked. Name your favourite or least favourite person alive, and I can tell you with absolute certainty that they definitely suck. The very first thing we learn to do upon exiting the womb is suck (in a literal sense, but also in a figurative sense). It’s in our human nature.
There’s an entire tirade in the Bible about this, actually. It’s particularly referring to the Jewish and Greek folks who would have engaged with this writing at the time, but you could swap in any ol’ demographic and get the same idea. Black or white, cis or trans, Christian or atheist, and anyone and everyone else. We. All. Suck.
“None is righteous, no, not one; no one understands; no one seeks for God.
All have turned aside; together they have become worthless; no one does good, not even one.”
Romans 3:11-12
Recently, I’ve learned a lot of my favourite creators suck, too. And I’m not talking incredibly famous people, but people who are just like me, people who create and share things. These people are musicians and bloggers and writers who just so happened to reach the right amount of people to “make it,” whatever that even looks like. But the point is, I could be any one of them.
It’s exciting. It’s humbling. It’s scary.
One of my favourite YouTubers is apparently a nightmare to work with. Another took a picture with all her friends — who just so happened to be skinny, white-passing, and attractive by our narrow Euro-centric beauty conventions — and spun the post as body positivity. One of my favourite podcasts of all time got derailed because…I’m still not entirely sure. Stevie Nicks’ landmark song has a title that’s quite literally a racial slur. And I could list every infraction ever committed by my favourite guitarists, from John Mayer’s general fuckery to how Richie Sambora drove drunk with his daughter in the car. Even my beloved Chili Peppers aren’t innocent, sexually assaulting a fan in the early 90s and citing a porn star who was literally underage at the time she was active in the industry as a muse.
“Beat it, creeps.”
I’ve always wanted to be famous, ever since I was little and ran onstage at some show because I was mad the actresses were getting attention instead of me. I used to daydream at great length about becoming a rock star, crafting entire scenarios in my head about what my life and career would be like. I imagined the inevitable biopic that would be made about me, my internal dialogue becoming a narration of the story of my life from the perspective of someone who thought I was cool enough to make a movie about.
But at the same time, I don’t know if I can handle being famous. And that’s simply because I suck. Certainly not as much as some of the creators I mentioned above, but I still suck. I’ve said and done things I regret a lot, and I’m just lucky that I wasn’t in the spotlight at the time. Because I honestly don’t know if I could handle the criticism, even if it was justified. Especially if it was justified. I hate the feeling of being wrong, almost as much as I hate the idea of ever hurting anyone.
As a creator of any type, there’s so much pressure to be perfect, not just looks-wise but as a person as well. We need to be a role model. I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I think creators should strive to be positive influences for their fans, and I think creators should be held accountable when they inevitably fuck up. Some of those things might be unforgivable. Should the allegations against Michael Jackson be true, for example, we definitely need to stop holding him up as an idol. Should we stop listening to his music? I think that’s an even more complicated issue that I’ll probably address in a future post. But for relatively benign “maybe I didn’t realise this was racist at the time but now I know better” kinds of problematic behaviour, I think we need more space for grace. Because God knows I’ll need it.
I want so badly to make waves as a musician or writer, but sometimes I find myself paralysed by the pressure to be above reproach in all things. What if something I posted ten years ago on Facebook resurfaces and shows me as a total asshole now? You have to put yourself out there to get any ounce of fame, but in the process, you open yourself up to so much scrutiny. And sometimes I wonder if I could handle that. I cry if someone looks at me funny (I describe myself as “the stereotypical Pisces” for good reason). I think I could handle the press or some anonymous Twitter denizen calling me ugly or untalented. But if someone attacked my character, something I take more seriously than my looks or even my art, I’d probably lose it.
I hate the term “cancel culture” because of its association with the anti-“woke” (read: anti-any media that’s not cishet white male) rhetoric, but I think it’s time we cancel cancel culture to an extent. Rather, we need a grace culture, one where people are free to fuck up and be able to redeem themselves. We need to have open conversations with each other about why we suck and how we can suck less in a way that’s not defensive or vilifying. We need to be open to learning from one another.
JESSA JOYCE 