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| A fusion of the past and present from Aftersun |
As usual, I was early. I'm always showing up to places before I'm supposed to. I always get so nervous about missing out on anything exciting that I want to make sure I'm early rather than late. In this case, I'd arrived at 6:54 PM at a Mexican restaurant, six minutes before my first date with a cool queer lady. It was time for some waiting, especially since my date was stuck in traffic. Some complimentary chips entered my mouth. I scrolled on my phone for a minute or two before whipping out a library book. Then, as I was absorbing literature, a familiar sound entered my ears. It was the song playing on the eatery's speaker system, a tune I remember from my earliest years.
"The South moves north, the North moves south
A star is born, a star burns out
The only thing that stays the same is
Everything changes, everything changes"
It's Tracy Lawrence's 1996 song "Time Marches On." This restaurant, which normally only played toe-tapping Spanish-language songs, was, for some reason, in a 90s/2000s country music mood tonight. That just happened to be the era of country music I listened to endlessly from 2004 to 2014. Brooks & Dunn, Tim McGraw, Garth Brooks, Martina McBride, I knew all their works by heart. Back in middle school, I'd scramble to the library computers every Monday to check Wikipedia and see what country tunes had dominated that week's Hot Country Songs chart. These songs, though I hadn't listened to many of them in eons, were once crucial to my existence.
How ironic. I was about to meet someone new. Carve out fresh memories. Yet before all that, I was taking an unexpected trip down memory lane. The past, present, and future had collided.
It would take my date until 7:30-ish to arrive, leaving me plenty of time to absorb the ghosts of Lisa's radio dial past. "She's Everything" by Brad Paisley quickly came on after "Time Marches On" and reminded me of how Paisley used to be my entire life. The first album I ever bought was his 2011 creation This Is Country Music, for goodness' sake. In that restaurant, I could practically feel the chipped, well-worn texture of the green iPod nano I used to listen to Paisley songs like "She's Everything" on.
When uncertainty left me uncontrollably stressed at school (which was nearly every day), I could pop in these tracks and get cozy familiarity. For three minutes, someone like Brad Paisley practically saved my life, as ridiculous as that sentence sounds now. Who knows where that iPod nano is now, but its texture and the songs it contained stuck with me. After "She's Everything," sillier country tunes like "Bubba Shot The Jukebox" filled the restaurant, a reminder that not everything from your childhood is weighty. Nostalgia and personal significance cannot lend all artistic creations immense depth. Sometimes, songs you remember are just silly artistic creations that almost certainly solely existed because someone wanted to croon a tune with "Bubba" in the title.
Listening to these country songs that used to be daily staples of my existence, I was struck by the tremendous gulf between my past and present selves. Lisa Laman circa. 2009 hated her autism and would've given anything to not be disabled. She was so endlessly frustrated and didn't have terms like depression, ADHD, and transness to help her navigate the turmoil. All I could conceive of at the time was that I was constantly sad and lonely. Within the often aching vocals of country songs like "Alyssa Lies" and "When I Get Where I'm Going" were pieces of art that reflected that pain. Like Charles M. Schulz's Peanuts comics, these country tunes made me feel like I wasn't alone in my anguish.
Among the tunes was Montgomery Gentry's "Something To Be Proud Of," a song that, in hindsight, introduced me to the idea that life could still be fulfilling if it didn't live up to either your dreams or other people's accomplishments. As toxic as 2000s country could be (oh hai Toby Keith song that endorsed lynchings, fuck off), I remain grateful for tunes like these that sparked weighty ideas in my head.
I distinctly remember, at the age of 11, begging my parents to switch the car's radio dial if I heard the opening chords of songs like Brooks & Dunn's "Believe." These tunes about death or other grim matters were just too much to handle on an ordinary day, I didn't want to be put into a funk without any advanced warning. Those songs solidified to me that art could be imposing...and that's a good thing. Life is full of torment, especially when you're navigating the public education system. Even if tracks like "Believe" or "Live Like You Were Dying" scared me because they made me feel sad, they also solidified to me how art could tackle more than just upbeat happy endings or party vibes.
Today, anxiety still grips me. Imposter syndrome is a daily friend. Just an hour ago, I had to wipe away tears over my insecurity regarding my romantic life, fears that I haven't accomplished enough in life, dysphoria over whether or not I can ever "belong" as a lesbian woman. Art remains a useful tool to navigate and translate that labyrinth of mental health issues. The difference now, though, is I don't just have to crouch in my room listening to the local country music stations to feel less alone.
I now have glorious friends who remind me why life is worth living. All kinds of art (every strain of cinema imaginable, books, paintings, other genres of music) can now stir my soul. Best of all, I've actually accomplished and survived things (moving out, traveling on my own repeatedly, speaking publicly, etc.) that give me hope I can do the next big thing life throws at me. Heck, here I was, going on a first date on a Tuesday night. 13-year-old Lisa Laman, who could only find fleeting solace in Cross Canadian Ragweed's 2008 ditty "17," could never have imagined that.
I don't know how helpful it would be to tell my younger self all this. "In the future, you'll still be stressed and anxious, but you'll have more tools to navigate it" may not sound like a rallying pep talk on par with "today, we celebrate...OUR INDEPENDENCE DAY!" Then again, having more tools to lean on and knowing that some "impossible" things (like living on my own) were coming...maybe that'd be enough. Maybe that could bring comfort to the younger version of me who often felt like only Taylor Swift's "Tim McGraw" or "Fifteen" truly understood her.
Those were the thoughts swirling in my head as I sat in that restaurant. The past suddenly filled around me like a body of water I submerged in. All the while, I was wearing a pink dress, green eyeshadow, and fuzzy pink fingerless gloves that I could've never imagined wearing out in public even eight years ago, let alone in 2009. It was interesting to suddenly contend with yesteryear once more. But it also made me grateful to be here. To still be alive. To exist in the now.
A little after 7:30, she sat down across from. She was gorgeous, there was absolutely no other word for it. Radiant necklaces jangled on her neck and dots of glitter shimmered on her shoulders. We proceeded to spend the next 90 minutes chatting away, which included me asking her about her favorite kinds of music. She then responded that she liked all genres...except for country. I had to emit a cackle. Boy, had we come to the wrong restaurant, at least on this night! Hey, at least I know now...for the future.
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