This is Not Okay

So this morning, I left the B&B my wife and I are staying in at the moment to grab some snacks. I was prepping for my karaoke gig as well as a very delayed Pride festival, so I put on my favorite pleather bustier and a flowy slit-leg skirt I got from a hippie store in St. Louis, and I started walking to the gas station on the corner. En route, I encountered a man on the sidewalk. As I passed him, the wind blew, and this man was definitely staring at my ass, because he remarked, entirely unwarranted:

“Nice purple panties!”

I didn’t know what to say. Perhaps I should have yelled “They’re actually pink and fuck you for looking in the first place,” but I was damn near paralyzed. So I muttered “No comment” and picked up the pace until I reached the gas station. I didn’t even look at the man. I don’t know what he looks like. All I know is suddenly I felt like I needed a fucking bath.

Crass and I met a kind woman who was living in a residential apartment in the 19th century mansion we’re staying in for a few nights. She was a mother, and when we first encountered her, she had her pink-onsied little one with her. Her name, too, was Christine, funnily enough, as that’s my wife’s government name, and she and her baby had also made national headlines, like Crass. She’d lost her home in a fire and the baby was rescued when a cop caught her out of a window. Needless to say, this woman had been through it, and I ran into her when I was coming back to the place.

She was going for a walk. I had to warn her. There was a creep nearby.

Christine shook her head. She, like me, had been a victim of rape. Massive trigger warning on that link, by the way, and probably for this entire post. We stood in the doorway and commiserated for a solid five minutes about the horrors of being a woman in our society. Because, as I told her, I hardly know a single woman who doesn’t have a similar story.

We have a fucking rape epidemic. Nearly one in five women in our country have experienced it, and that’s just the numbers we know about. That’s not even counting less intense forms of sexual harassment, which has a staggering 81 percent of women reporting having experienced it (as well as nearly half of the men surveyed — more on that in a second). How is it that so many women have gone through this? It makes me nervous to think about. If there’s that many victims, where the hell are all the abusers?

And that’s the sad, scary part. They walk among us. You might even know one. Do you know how often this shit goes unreported? Many cases never reach authorities. My rapist is still a free man as far as I know, with a daughter no less. It kills me to think about.

This world is not safe for women. Christine and I talked at length about how dangerous it is just to trust a random man. Sure, there are no shortage of great, stand-up dudes who actually care about women, like my late father and my boyfriend and my best guy friend. But if you have a bowl of M&Ms and one of them is laced with cyanide, would you still chance the M&Ms? That’s how it feels to be around men — any men! — in our current zeitgeist. Men are getting even more aggressive and misogynistic thanks to the influence of the “manosphere.” It sucks because it colors every man with the same broad paintbrush, even the objectively good ones. And surprise, men are also hurt by the patriarchy and our societal insistence that men are supposed to be mighty and emotionless and women are weak little babymakers. Men get raped too, and they seldom get taken seriously because they’re expected to be strong enough to fight back.

I hate that this is the reality we live in. I wish I had a happy resolution to this post, but until we find a way to topple our tower of patriarchal norms, we’re not going to be out of the woods, and while we’re there, we’re still picking the bear. We need to start doing the work of teaching proper consent and holding people accountable when violations happen. We need to teach boys to respect the girls in their lives instead of constantly reinforcing the notion that they’re somehow superior. I hope we get to a place where we can experience true gender equality and the forces that teach that rape is acceptable are finally silenced. I don’t want to be terrified around random dudes on the street. I don’t want any woman to feel that way.

Sadly, there’s nothing I can do on my own except write this blog post bringing attention to the issue. But I pray a change happens soon. We can’t keep living in fear. This is not okay.

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.

Mom Jeans, Ugly Sweater

Earlier today, on the Platform That Shall Not Be Named, I happened stumbled upon this, uh, gem:

It’s not a secret that I grew up in an evangelical environment. Not the fault of my parents, mind you — my mother and father are Christian culturally but otherwise pretty irreligious. It was primarily the influence of my friends, who all grew up with moms and dads who swore by Focus on the Family newsletters and listened to Newsboys for fun. I found myself heavily enveloped in the local megachurch by high school, thanks to these friends. I’m aware that I talk mad shit about that old church (and pastor, who recently asserted I had lost my “mind, soul, and conscious” by becoming a filthy liberal — no hate like Christian love, as they say). But there were good things about it, like the music. And the food. And the people. Some of the people, at least.

But I won’t lie, that church messed me up in a lot of ways. It goes way beyond just the gay stuff, which I’ve already addressed on here before. My body image was pretty fucky wucky for a hot minute, all thanks to the “modest is hottest” rhetoric. Basically, tank tops were verboten for two reasons. Two big reasons.

First and foremost, modesty was to protect the boys, because of course it was. We were taught that looking at a woman lustfully was just as bad as sleeping with her, so instead of, you know, plucking out your eyeball like Jesus said to do, the crux of the responsibility was put on the girls to not be a “stumbling block.” We couldn’t cause the poor innocent boys to sin with our exposed bodies!

But there was a second, almost more sinister reason.

It was to protect us from the boys.

Because boys have no self-control, right?

It’s like putting a steak in front of a dog and expecting him not to eat it. I heard that one in church before. You can’t be dressed “slutty” in front of a guy because if he takes advantage of you, people assume you wanted it. It’s a shitty sentiment for both guys and girls. It’s basically saying all guys are inherent rape machines, ticking time bombs that will assault a woman with no remorse the second he has the opportunity, and I know that’s not correct. I know this because I surround myself with quality men who’d never, ever do that to someone. I’m fact, I’ve been around them dressed in my sluttiest apparel, and never once did I feel unsafe.

The one time I was raped, though?

Mom jeans, ugly sweater.

I still remember the exact sweater. It had chunky stripes of dark blue and purple and white and orange and pink and yellow. The jeans weren’t my typical sexy tight skinny jeans either. Nothing about this outfit was attractive. My hair was also a mess. When it happened, I don’t even think I was wearing makeup. I was literally at my homeliest. My point is, I was giving no signal to the world that I was “asking for it.”

Neither are the countless children who are sexually abused. Or the hijabis who get assaulted despite covering up far more than most women in the western world. A woman could wear a burlap sack over her entire body and still be a victim.

That’s because rape isn’t about the sex. It’s about power.

That’s what “memes” like the one I shared at the beginning of this blog post don’t get. Clothing is irrelevant. Do you think my rapist was deterred by a few buttons? He wanted what he wanted, and it didn’t matter if I was wearing my sexiest lingerie or, ya know, an ugly sweater and mom jeans.

It’s sad that we essentially teach girls that they’re to blame if they get assaulted. That’s what this line of thinking will inevitably lead to. Instead, we should be teaching young men to respect boundaries. Men aren’t all predators, and we need to show boys that they have the choice to be a good man. We need more positive masculinity. We need dudes to be more Mr. Rogers, less Andrew Tate. We need guys who are strong enough to stand up to abusers and gentle enough to not become one.

If you’re reading this and are a survivor yourself, please know it wasn’t your fault, no matter what you were wearing at the time. And always remember that you are more than the sum of your trauma. The awful shit that happened to you doesn’t need to define you. Rather, defy it. Live so completely and fully that the bad memories are entirely overwritten with positive ones. That’s what I’ve been trying to do, with quite a bit of success. It’s been nearly seven years and I don’t even recall his name. I recently stumbled upon a picture of him in my phone that I’d saved in case I ever wanted to press charges. It’s odd — the picture didn’t really freak me out as much as I’d thought it would.

But if I’m honest, I don’t know if I could ever bring myself to wear that ugly sweater again.

Back in My Body

I never thought it would happen to me, but I should have expected it. I barely know any women it hasn’t happened to in some form or another. I always assumed if it ever did happen to me, it would be easy enough to get over. The moment ended, after all; you gotta move on sometime.

But when I was raped back in 2019, it stole so much from me. I remember falling into a deep depression that eventually led to the beginning stages of alcoholism. I stopped trusting people and started assuming everyone had bad intentions. And worst of all, it directly led to me dropping out of the music therapy program.

I still remember driving back from that music therapy conference with tears in my eyes, unable to wash the feeling of my assailant from myself. The aftermath left me feeling even more detached from my own body. I tried my best to poison it, and my drinking left it bloated and unrecognizable. I was a wreck, mentally and physically.

But as of writing this, I’m two years sober. I’m in the final stages of my music therapy degree. And perhaps most importantly, I feel at home in my own body again.

I was driving back to Michigan a few days ago for a brief visit when “Back in My Body” by Maggie Rogers came on Spotify. I’d heard the song before, but it never felt relevant to me until that very moment.

I don’t think Rogers intended the song to be a sexual assault recovery anthem (it’s actually about her time overseas), but to me, that’s absolutely what it has become. “This time I know I’m fighting, this time I know I’m back in my body.” I found myself screaming those words as I drove, finally feeling free from that moment that seemingly stole my future.

It’s oddly poetic that I ended up in Fort Wayne of all places. That’s where the last music therapy conference was held, where I finally overwrote the memory of sitting in a hotel rooftop bar next to the man who’d go on to defile me in such an vile way. This time, I went up to the hotel rooftop bar with a girl I love with my whole heart, who I trust with my life. That night when we made love, it was because I wanted it. And I felt safe.

My music therapy degree will be hard-won, and it’s almost finished. I have so much love in my life, between my partners and my parents and my closest friends. The damage that was done has been mostly reversed. The memories still creep in now and then, but I know I’m stronger now. He’ll never hurt me again.

I’m back in my body, and I’ve never been happier.

Dear Cadence, Part Nine: The Path to Your Dreams is Not Always Linear

This is the latest installment in my memoir project, written as a series of letters to my future daughter. Here are the previous entries: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, and Part Eight

I found out what music therapy was from one of my grandma’s nurses when she was dying. She found out I played music and encouraged me to bring in my guitar to play for my grandma and the other old folks at the nursing home. She told me there were people who get paid to do this kind of thing, and that they actually go to school to study the ways music can be used to help people.

I wasn’t sold entirely. My long term plan was to attend Eastern as a pre-med student and eventually go to the more prestigious (and expensive) University of Michigan for medical school. I’d minor in music, but it wouldn’t be my main thing. I wanted to be a cardiologist or a pediatrician or even a neurosurgeon, something that could legitimately help people, instead of wasting my time selfishly playing music for my own ego (this was before the “Jacob”’arc).

I’d already signed up for all of my freshman year bio classes when my parents overheard me singing and playing in my room.

“Remember what that nurse said about music therapy?” they said, implying that they wanted to become the first parents in human history to encourage their child to go to music school instead of becoming a doctor.

So I went back up to the university right away and auditioned for the music therapy program. I already knew my way around a guitar and I could sing circles around most of the other freshmen trying out, so I was a shoo-in.

Despite being less than a half hour from my hometown, life at the university seemed a world away from life in high school. Not only was I living in an artsy fartsy college town, it was also the point in time when the “quirky weird girl” trope was at its most popular. The days when no one wanted to associate with me seemed like another life. Everyone wanted a piece of the guitar-slingin’ manic pixie dream girl, and I was happy to oblige. I started playing house shows and cafe gigs, and I made a name for myself as the Taylor Swift of Ypsilanti, Michigan.

But the cracks began to show as I struggled to stay awake and focused during my classes, to the point where I’d gotten referred to the university counselors by my professors. To top it off, the anxieties that had plagued me my entire life were coming to a head, to a near debilitating degree, and I had no choice but to consult with a psychiatrist at a local clinic for young adults. It was there that I was prescribed Prozac, which I do credit with saving my life, but it wasn’t nearly enough to save my academic attempts. Music therapy school was brutal, and I found myself fighting hard just to stay on top of my coursework.

I’d signed up for the school newspaper on a whim, and that seemed to be working well for me, at least. I was a naturally skilled writer. I didn’t even have to try to crank out article after article for the paper — I would sit down at my laptop and the words would just flow through my fingertips. I even got awarded the title of editor for the arts and culture section of the paper less than a year into me working there (we’ll revisit that in the next chapter). I did some research on the journalism major and it seemed significantly easier than music therapy, which was becoming increasingly difficult to even find the motivation to study for. As my mental health declined, I wondered how I’d ever be a therapist when I couldn’t even help myself. At least newspaper editors didn’t have to help other people figure their shit out. I could just do my thing and pretend I was okay.

So I made the decision to switch my major to journalism and forego music therapy altogether.

Still, even after I graduated, it felt like something was missing from my life. I tried finding writing jobs but nothing ever stuck. This was around the time I was still reeling from the breakup of my first real band (which we’ll get to) and the crumbling of my first marriage (which we’ll also get to). Nothing was working out, and I needed to regroup and figure something else out. That’s when Coco happened.

Coco was a Disney movie about a little Mexican boy who plays guitar against his family’s wishes. I won’t spoil it, although I’m certain I’ve played it for you at some point in your childhood. (What kind of a mother would I be if I didn’t make you watch all my favorite Disney movies?) But the climax of the movie, where music helps the protagonist’s grandmother momentarily regain her precious memories, made me realize I’d made the wrong decision when I switched majors. I was meant to — destined to — use music to heal people. No, I wasn’t too messed up to be a music therapist. That was a damn lie I told myself and believed to the point it became the truth. I drove straight up to that university myself and told the professors I’d be joining them once again that fall.

And…I failed once more. This time, it wasn’t my choice. I had a strong start. That school year began with me trying my very best. I was doing everything in my power to succeed this time, taking notes and staying alert and keeping organized. Then, something happened at that year’s music therapy conference that derailed all my plans.

I was raped.

The assailant was a total stranger, and I should have known better than to trust him when I met him at the rooftop bar at my hotel. But I was lonely, and it was my first time traveling alone, no friends, no parents, no husband. And he was charming. He said he loved how I was using music to help people.

All before everything went dark, in the absolute worst way possible.

After the incident, my mental health took a nosedive. I couldn’t concentrate for shit. I started drinking myself sick every night. I was making rash decisions and doing everything I could to drown out the ever-present feeling of disgust. I eventually snapped and found myself crying in the office of one of my professors. I couldn’t do this anymore.

And so I dropped out of the music therapy program for a second time.

This is a depressing chapter, right? I promise it has a happy ending.

Another few years passed and I found myself drifting aimlessly once again. I was in a slightly better place — I was married to someone I actually wanted to be married to, and my mental health was finally on the up-and-up. I even got a proper ADHD diagnosis, which explained some of the inattentiveness that made my previous attempts at the degree more difficult. But I didn’t have a job I actually liked. I knew I was meant for more than wiping people’s butts or slinging prescription pills. (Legally. As a pharmacy technician. Your mother was never a drug dealer.)

So, tail tucked between my legs, I whimpered pathetically at the professors one last time, begging for one last shot at that music therapy degree.

And this time, it worked! While finishing those last two years of schooling, I managed to earn a prestigious scholarship and even presented on autism for the university’s undergraduate research symposium. In 2023, I completed the coursework necessary to become a music therapist. As of writing, I’m waiting to hear back from my internship site. After completing the internship, I have to take a test, and then I’ll be certified. In other words, I still have a long road ahead of me, but the worst is over.

Sometimes I wonder where I’d be if I’d just stayed the course and finished my music therapy degree years ago. The truth is, I probably would have crashed and burned. I needed to learn to take care of myself first; otherwise, I probably wouldn’t have been focused and motivated enough to earn that scholarship or present in that symposium. I would have gotten meh grades and probably would have landed a meh job I would have given up on as soon as things got hard. But my place in music therapy is now fire-forged. I’ve been through the worst, and now I’m better equipped and prepared to face whatever comes next. The twelve years it took me to get this far weren’t a waste of time. Rather, it was time spent figuring out for sure that this is where I belong. I don’t think I would have made it this far had I not taken all the time I needed to reevaluate my core values and recover from, well, everything.

Often, the path to your dreams isn’t linear. It’s a road with many forks, pitfalls, and distractions. If you ever lose your way, though, just remember this chapter. When you discover what it is you’re meant to be in this world, it will chase you down, and no amount of obstacles will keep you from what it is you need to do. You are stronger than everything that will ever try to hold you back. You’re a force of nature unlike anything anyone’s ever seen, and I’m so excited to see where life takes you.

Even If It Kills Me

TW: sexual assault

I write this from my hotel room at GLR, the annual music therapy conference for the Midwest-based students, practitioners, and academics. It’s hard to believe the last time I was at GLR, I was still legally married to my ex and COVID hadn’t yet happened.

So much has changed.

The last GLR I attended was in Cincinnati. I remember all too well. You might remember too, if you remember this post (HUGE FUCKING TRIGGER WARNING ON THAT ONE). That was the year my dream of becoming a music therapist was stolen from me, when the aftermath of the rape I experienced on that trip tainted the very field I longed to be part of. Suddenly, everything related to music therapy reminded me of the person who violated me. My mental health got worse. I started drinking heavily. Soon, I wasn’t able to keep up with the coursework, and I dropped all my classes.

I’d already left the music therapy program once, due to my mental health, but this seemed insurmountable. And reentering the program after that felt like pushing a boulder up a mountain with a toothpick. I’d already given up twice. Surely I was too damaged to ever be a real music therapist.

But I’m here. I’m still here.

As of writing this, I’m not only at the conference, but I’m gearing up for the prestigious Undergraduate Symposium, where I’ll be giving a presentation on music therapy and autism. All of my current grades are, by some miracle of God, in the A range. I’m meeting with my professor to discuss internships in a week, and I won a research fellowship that paid for my entire senior year, and then some.

It doesn’t seem real. I shouldn’t be here, but I am. And I owe it all to the people who have helped me through recovery — my wife, my family, my professors. And to myself. I fought like hell to get to a place where I’m staring down graduation at last, where I’m finally on the cusp of claiming the title of MT-BC for myself.

This GLR feels almost poetic. I’m back at a hotel not unlike the one I was assaulted at, but I feel safe. I feel whole. Everything has come full circle, and my dream of becoming a music therapist feels not only within reach, but no longer tainted by the hands that hurt me. I’m not going to let trauma steal the very reason I was put on this planet — to heal through music. I am not too damaged.

On my 30th birthday a few weeks back, dad said something that made me tear up a little. When he briefly died on the operating table after a massive heart attack, he said my then-very-young niece appeared to him and said he couldn’t die yet. But he finally told me the rest of the story.

She said he couldn’t die because he had to see me graduate.

I’m not turning back because this time, it’s personal. I love my dad — and myself — more than I hate my rapist. I’m going to get this degree and this certification in spite of everything. In the words of Motion City Soundtrack, I so wanna get back on track. I’ll do whatever it takes.

Even if it kills me.