November 2019

The silver metallic ink may have faded a bit, but the words are still clearly visible: “For Abby ~ Travellin’ Music.” The precisely formed letters immediately evoke visions of sentences diagrammed on whiteboards, answer keys created together and shared, a teaching partnership of mutual encouragement and competition. Decades later, I wonder if either of us would have gone so far without those shared years. I suspect we would have—we were (are) both driven—but my journey would have lacked a signpost I have depended on.

Last month I found myself sitting around a stranger’s kitchen table with a group of sexual assault survivors and co-conspirators, plotting.

I’ve never really felt ashamed to sing. My mom sang to me as a kid, and I remember quietly humming along to her rendition of "She’ll Be Comin’ ‘Round the Mountain” nightly. Alongside her soothing voice, I lullabied myself to sleep. I have the same habit as my mom, singing mindlessly while doing various tasks. Even after my siblings and I have all grown up and passed the nursery rhyme phase, it’s never a surprise to hear my mom singing while she’s washing dishes, grading papers, driving, cleaning, or walking the dogs.

“You’re too little,” my cousin Kelsey said, pushing my cousins and me out of the Green Room at my grandpa’s house before she slammed the door and locked it. She, my brother, and my other cousin were watching the video to “Helena” by My Chemical Romance (MCR), which in all honesty is a bit creepy. They were in the middle of their pre-teen emo phase. Kelsey, Jackie, and Berkley all had a variation of side bangs. All three wore skinny jeans and studded belts.

It’s no secret that I am a sucker for a good romantic comedy or teenage coming-of-age movie. Both of these genres tend to operate on themes of innocence and hope, something that the world could use a little bit more of.