One of my closest friends is, by all standards, a real, genuine, bona fide optimist. I have never considered myself one, and our friendship has been wonderfully tempered by the glaring disparities in several of our viewpoints—we frequently joke about the balance that exists between her peppy sunshine-soaked idealism and my undeniably darker views, which occasionally cross over into the territory of outright cynicism. It’s from Kaitlyn that I garnered one of my favorite adages: “everything is a learning experience.”
There’s something inherently beautiful about such an idea. It’s not as clear-cut as drawing a line between good and bad and dismissing people or events to one side of the line and one side alone. Instead of making such a black-and-white—and quite frankly, unrealistic—distinction, there’s an opportunity that arises: a chance to explore those grey areas. A chance for personal betterment, for self-awareness, for the recognition of hidden realizations buried under layers of denial. The darkest moment can lead to the brightest knowledge, and that is something I can stand behind. What this idea really means is that even in seemingly powerless moments, you are not truly helpless. Everyone has the chance to choose how to move forward from their most challenging moments. We can choose to remain stagnant in our development, or we can choose to grow. We can hide in the shadows of our pain, or we can choose to crawl out of the darkness and face the sun.
Take a break up, for example—be it the termination of a romantic relationship or the end of a friendship. Not all breakups are devastating messes, true; on occasion they may not even prove to be painful for one party, or even for both—but they are not black and white. They can be painful, they can be little eruptions of emotion, they can be agonizing, but they can also be cathartic. Heartbreak is not easy—and it does not get easier with each new occurrence. Heartbreak is scary—and it’s much easier to dismiss something which scares us than it is to face it and open ourselves up to all that it really entails. And while the heartbreak may be scary, the thought of opening oneself up again can be just as terrifying, if not even more so. Could we not choose to use the ruinations and wreckage of heartbreak as an excuse to employ the life of an emotional hermit?
But are we not also capable of accepting the difficulties that such an experience lays at our feet, and moving past them to seize the possibility of some currently unknown marvel awaiting us in the future? Is this not a chance for introspection and personal growth, to find beauty in misery? True, it may also be a chance to run through a box and a half of tissues in less than twelve hours and to cry until your eyes are puffier than a Chow Chow’s fur coat—and as emotionally painful, and in the case of those tear ducts, physically painful, as that may be, we can choose to be okay. It’s easier to write people off as cruel and selfish—judge them solely by their harsher moments—and close ourselves off to the possibility of emotional vulnerability than it is to recognize that people can have moments of weakness and callousness, yet still have the capability of human decency. And even if they choose not to exercise it, is that really a reason for us to do the same? If people put cruelty out into the world, wouldn’t we be better off putting more kindness out there to counter it? People think kindness is the weaker choice—I disagree. I think we should be better than the people who disappoint us. Be kinder, be more understanding, be more forgiving. Because while some people might think that's weaker—it actually takes a lot more strength to recognize someone’s cruelty and coldness and choose to override their own desire to resort to the same behavior.
I have long thrived on a melancholic mentality that discounted the utilization of optimism, as indulgence in such ideas opened up the possibility for disappointment. It was with the slightest of smiles that I would elucidate my outlook to friends: if you expected the worst, and that was what the situation brought, then you were prepared, and not disappointed—if, however, you expected the worst and reality was anything less, well, then you were pleasantly surprised, even if it was only mildly so. It was, I informed them with a less than comforting laugh, a win-win situation. Such thoughts were dismissed by most friends as the simple machinations of a soul that had been beaten and broken by various small moments in the fabric of her life—patches held together by stitches that simply couldn’t be cut. What people didn’t do was dismiss it for what it truly was—a coping mechanism being employed by a young woman afraid to face the possibility of pain. If anyone did recognize it for what it was, they didn’t tell me, and my ignorance was indulged—ignorance may be bliss, but that ignorance is no part of a life I want to lead. It’s much easier to hide from the negative than it is to face its existence, let alone face its actual occurrence and all that it entails.
I still find myself using this coping mechanism from time to time. The difference now is learning from it—recognizing that I cannot truly enjoy the chance to grow and expand as a person without embracing the possibility of being hurt and disappointed. Even recognizing this coping mechanism’s true identity is a learning experience—it brings to light not only its inherent flaws (in order to truly achieve the personal growth and happiness that I desire in my life, I must grow emotionally, and the only way in which I can do so is to undergo the trials and tribulations of emotional upset), but also a recognition of my own conscious fears, such as the fear of once again opening myself up to the possibility of emotional vulnerability.
I don’t know if I’m an optimist. I don’t know if I’m a pessimist. I don’t know if I’m a realist. I don’t know if I’m some sort of amalgamation of all three. And that’s okay—because what I do know is that everything is a learning experience, and for now, I’m learning, and that’s enough.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Living the Teenage Dream, Post-Teenage Years
So this past July, as part of a birthday present for my boyfriend Gabe, I got a chance to live my sixteen year-old self’s dream—I finally attended Warped Tour. Now for those of you who have only known me in my more recent college years, you probably won’t truly comprehend what an exciting occurrence this was for me—but for those of you who can recall the angled MySpace photos, the wardrobe replete with band tees and fishnets (OBVIOUSLY worn under jeans with holes in the knees), an almost unnatural affinity for eyeliner, and, of course, the one time that I put turquoise highlights (can they really be called highlights in that case?) in my hair, you’ll probably understand the gravity of my happiness. Or if, like some of my college friends, you devote an almost obscene amount of time to unearthing some of the very few—and I repeat, VERY few—remaining bits of proof which populate my earliest Facebook photos, then I suppose you can recognize to some degree what an experience like this would have meant to that girl.
It was that same girl who covered almost the entirety of my high school room with cutouts from Alternative Press: interviews with band members, reviews of albums—all the “important” tidbits which, when combined with the whole of my musical interests, culminated in a physical representation of my musical self-identity. There remained, for the longest time (and when I say longest time, I mean probably about five years), several interviews with band members who were about to headline Warped Tour, circa 2009. Eighteen year old me would have hacked off my right hand for a chance to attend that show and had the opportunity to scream my fangirl voice raw at the sight of three of my (then) favorite bands—and yet, sadly, I was unable to attend. Months passed, and years, and my musical interests not only shifted, but they EXPANDED. I emphasize “expanded” here because while I no longer align myself completely with the bands who brought me so much joy in the later part of my teen years, I do still enjoy rediscovering the adoration which I held for them when they shuffle into my music. Yet I hardly see sixteen, seventeen, or eighteen year old Sarah comprehending that twenty three year old Sarah would greatly enjoy the musical talents of a twenty seven year old baby-faced white rapper, one George Watsky, one of the performers who happened to be part of my incentive in attending the music festival.
Now the point of this post is not simply to elaborate on the somewhat dramatic shift in my musical taste that has taken place over the last few years—yet recognizing it is essential to understanding the full scope of my experience of Warped Tour. There is a certain degree of intimacy that is bred at a musical festival, whether it be Warped Tour, or Lollapalooza, or Bonnaroo. Its point of origin is more difficult to trace than one would think; some will want to simplify it and write it off as the obvious fact that we are, as with most concerts, physically close. You are almost inevitably going to end up talking to the person next to you, whether it be out of an almost unmanageable sense of excitement as your musical idol takes the stage amidst waves of unchecked vocal adorations, or because this person has miraculously managed to step on your toes more than five times in the last three minutes, and you didn’t have the forethought to wear close-toed shoes (*actual problems.). Others may chalk it up to the actions of the bands and performers themselves, who go out of their way to interact with their fans pre- and post-show, doing formal and informal meet-and-greets and signings of merchandise at the small tents they have set up. There were several points during which Gabe and I were forced to maneuver around lines which must have constituted a minimum twenty-minute wait to meet bands, who dedicated more than a little time to the signing of hats, albums, shirts, phone cases, and various body parts. On another level, this intimacy could be attributed to the general setup of Warped Tour—the arrangement of several small stages throughout the concert arena. And while these are all essential tenets of the intimacy, I don’t believe any one of them alone accounts for it. On a deeper level, what really brings the attendees together is the desire to witness their favorite artists putting forth their musical talents in a way that is much more raw and emotional than fans simply listening to it through their headphones and the speakers of their car. There exists a relationship between performer and audience in live performance that is lacking in the day to day streaming of music, and that relationship becomes obvious from the moment the performer steps on stage. Microphones are stuck out to the audience for crowd participation, requests are taken, hands reach and, in some cases, actually grasp the idol who has more than likely touched their lives in no small way.
On another level, Warped Tour can be a musical smorgasbord, something which I highly doubt sixteen year old Sarah would have truly appreciated and utilized. Gabe and I have highly varied tastes in music, yet such a fact doesn’t come into play in the attendance of a music festival like this, where we can experience everything from punk rock to acoustic folk to alternative rap, as well as metalcore and pop reggae (which we totally didn’t know was a thing). For roughly fifty bucks a pop you can choose to expand your musical repertoire at least twenty fold, depending on how you choose to break down your day. Craving a little metal? Hit the Monster Energy Stage. Feel like toning it down and cruising on some indie ballads? Why not check out the Acoustic Basement setup? Wanna feel the bass drop, bro? Beatport Stage it is.
Sixteen year old Sarah may not have had the chance to live her dream, but somehow, twenty three year old Sarah doing it seven years later seems so much better. That isn’t to say twenty three year old Sarah didn’t fangirl like sixteen year old Sarah would have—I did, no shame; I accidentally walked away from a photo opportunity because I was so nervously overwhelmed by the physical presence of one of my favorite performers—but twenty three year old Sarah fangirled over a completely different genre of music, a performer who didn’t grace my iTunes until years after I had parted ways with my last Hot Topic purchase, and in a larger part, with subtler aspects of the music festival which I had not noted in my younger years. This isn’t me telling everyone to plan a day of Warped Tour next summer, because not everyone will do that. But attend a music festival. Go to a concert. Check out the openers. Feel yourself melt with a large group of strangers who came to a place to appreciate the hard work, talent, and drive of a musical act that is there to entertain you. Do it, I promise you won’t regret it.
It was that same girl who covered almost the entirety of my high school room with cutouts from Alternative Press: interviews with band members, reviews of albums—all the “important” tidbits which, when combined with the whole of my musical interests, culminated in a physical representation of my musical self-identity. There remained, for the longest time (and when I say longest time, I mean probably about five years), several interviews with band members who were about to headline Warped Tour, circa 2009. Eighteen year old me would have hacked off my right hand for a chance to attend that show and had the opportunity to scream my fangirl voice raw at the sight of three of my (then) favorite bands—and yet, sadly, I was unable to attend. Months passed, and years, and my musical interests not only shifted, but they EXPANDED. I emphasize “expanded” here because while I no longer align myself completely with the bands who brought me so much joy in the later part of my teen years, I do still enjoy rediscovering the adoration which I held for them when they shuffle into my music. Yet I hardly see sixteen, seventeen, or eighteen year old Sarah comprehending that twenty three year old Sarah would greatly enjoy the musical talents of a twenty seven year old baby-faced white rapper, one George Watsky, one of the performers who happened to be part of my incentive in attending the music festival.
Now the point of this post is not simply to elaborate on the somewhat dramatic shift in my musical taste that has taken place over the last few years—yet recognizing it is essential to understanding the full scope of my experience of Warped Tour. There is a certain degree of intimacy that is bred at a musical festival, whether it be Warped Tour, or Lollapalooza, or Bonnaroo. Its point of origin is more difficult to trace than one would think; some will want to simplify it and write it off as the obvious fact that we are, as with most concerts, physically close. You are almost inevitably going to end up talking to the person next to you, whether it be out of an almost unmanageable sense of excitement as your musical idol takes the stage amidst waves of unchecked vocal adorations, or because this person has miraculously managed to step on your toes more than five times in the last three minutes, and you didn’t have the forethought to wear close-toed shoes (*actual problems.). Others may chalk it up to the actions of the bands and performers themselves, who go out of their way to interact with their fans pre- and post-show, doing formal and informal meet-and-greets and signings of merchandise at the small tents they have set up. There were several points during which Gabe and I were forced to maneuver around lines which must have constituted a minimum twenty-minute wait to meet bands, who dedicated more than a little time to the signing of hats, albums, shirts, phone cases, and various body parts. On another level, this intimacy could be attributed to the general setup of Warped Tour—the arrangement of several small stages throughout the concert arena. And while these are all essential tenets of the intimacy, I don’t believe any one of them alone accounts for it. On a deeper level, what really brings the attendees together is the desire to witness their favorite artists putting forth their musical talents in a way that is much more raw and emotional than fans simply listening to it through their headphones and the speakers of their car. There exists a relationship between performer and audience in live performance that is lacking in the day to day streaming of music, and that relationship becomes obvious from the moment the performer steps on stage. Microphones are stuck out to the audience for crowd participation, requests are taken, hands reach and, in some cases, actually grasp the idol who has more than likely touched their lives in no small way.
On another level, Warped Tour can be a musical smorgasbord, something which I highly doubt sixteen year old Sarah would have truly appreciated and utilized. Gabe and I have highly varied tastes in music, yet such a fact doesn’t come into play in the attendance of a music festival like this, where we can experience everything from punk rock to acoustic folk to alternative rap, as well as metalcore and pop reggae (which we totally didn’t know was a thing). For roughly fifty bucks a pop you can choose to expand your musical repertoire at least twenty fold, depending on how you choose to break down your day. Craving a little metal? Hit the Monster Energy Stage. Feel like toning it down and cruising on some indie ballads? Why not check out the Acoustic Basement setup? Wanna feel the bass drop, bro? Beatport Stage it is.
Sixteen year old Sarah may not have had the chance to live her dream, but somehow, twenty three year old Sarah doing it seven years later seems so much better. That isn’t to say twenty three year old Sarah didn’t fangirl like sixteen year old Sarah would have—I did, no shame; I accidentally walked away from a photo opportunity because I was so nervously overwhelmed by the physical presence of one of my favorite performers—but twenty three year old Sarah fangirled over a completely different genre of music, a performer who didn’t grace my iTunes until years after I had parted ways with my last Hot Topic purchase, and in a larger part, with subtler aspects of the music festival which I had not noted in my younger years. This isn’t me telling everyone to plan a day of Warped Tour next summer, because not everyone will do that. But attend a music festival. Go to a concert. Check out the openers. Feel yourself melt with a large group of strangers who came to a place to appreciate the hard work, talent, and drive of a musical act that is there to entertain you. Do it, I promise you won’t regret it.
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