Ode to Mom
*A creative nonfiction essay.
Music takes root in our memories, takes root in our souls. There is even science to back up this feeling. Dementia patients who can no longer remember their own names will be able to recite the lyrics to their favorite song from adolescence when they hear it play on the radio. Setting key points of information to the tune of well known songs can help improve performance on exams. Listening to an album you first heard while on vacation can transport you back to the destination and the memories you made there in no time. The beats and rhythm of these songs are scattered throughout time and yet somehow connect us to each other and what gives our lives meaning.
There’s always been music, and there’s always been noise. When the noise got to be too much, I turned to music. It was a balm over the harshness of said noise. I could focus on each instrument one by one, the timbre of the singers voice, and relatability of the lyrics. I took refuge in music to a degree where I could start a radio station in my brain with my favorite songs if the noise started to get too loud and I didn’t have access to headphones. There was really only ever one person who understood where this obsession came from, and why I chose the artists I did. The reason they knew this so intimately is because the person in question is my mom.
I have hazy memories of hearing my favorite band for the first time. The memories are almost as hazy as the humid Florida day post-thunderstorm, where me, my mom, my brother, my Aunt Shawn, and my cousins, all piled into Shawn’s minivan. I can’t quite remember our physical destination at the time, as it was probably close to twenty years ago at this point, and I definitely didn’t realize the spiritual journey I was about to go on. The first buzzes of a theremin play over the van’s speakers as I unstick my thighs from the seats. The instrument builds up and lends itself to gentle guitar and a little drumroll as the song opens. This song, of course, was Green Day’s “Misery”. My mom and I were instantly intrigued by the sounds and vibes and lyrics of the song. So, Shawn played the next song on the album, a song by the name of “Deadbeat Holiday”. This lit the fuse for the album Warning by Green Day becoming me and my mom’s newest obsession, but more importantly sparked our love for Green Day as a whole. Shawn burned us a copy of the album and another CD with some Green Day favorites and sent us on our merry way back to New York.
I remember on the way to summer camp in years following, every day, we’d play Green Day, with a hard focus on Warning. At some point we had printed lyric booklets so we could sing along with the right words. I wouldn’t swear, but the words weren’t unfamiliar, as they tended to be a part of the noise, leaving my mom mostly unconcerned about the vulgarities. That album played every night as I went to bed for most of my childhood. Bedtime meant me time, time to think and imagine my biggest dreams and create outrageous stories to get away from the noise and just listen to the music. I could cozy up knowing that if I’m supposed to be asleep, if the world is asleep, then I am safe. The sounds of anger in the house disappear. No expectations, just me.
My mom and I have always been the main target of my dad’s aggression. Yelling and name calling that can be heard echoing down the block. Multiple doors had been broken and countless holes punched in the walls. Belongings thrown out on the front lawn, and being humiliated in public. Amongst the various shifts in focus and change in intensity through the years, my mom and I would often, and still do often confide in each other about his wrath. At the time of discovering Green Day, we both would block out his noise and channel our anger through their music. It was cathartic for us as individuals and as mother and daughter. Sharing music became a way for us to connect, to tell each other things without having to verbalize them ourselves. Music rapidly became “our thing”.
My mom took me to my first concert when I was eight. We saw none other than Green Day themselves. We saw them in a stadium in Albany, and why we didn’t go to New York City instead is a mystery to me. It was probably sold out or more expensive. Regardless, we got to see our favorite band and drag the rest of the family along. That show turned me onto live music forever. There’s something magic seeing the theatrics of a band performing live, fans singing, screaming the lyrics back. A sense of community and connection blossoms, even if just for the night. No two shows ever would be alike, akin to snowflakes. I always got to foster that connection with my mom in that environment.
My mom became my permanent concert buddy. We like the same music–my entire childhood she indoctrinated me to her favorites, and eventually I’d start showing her the music I found and loved–so going together was a no brainer. We’ve discovered bands together as well. If they open for another band we like for example. We have seen Green Day specifically five times, each time special in their own right, strengthening our bond. I’ve always been close with my mom, but this gave us a thing, a touchstone. It’s where we go to drown out the bad and carve our memories into stone.
My childhood was fraught with the unknown. My dad’s moods were unpredictable, you never knew which version of him you were going to get. Music gives us stability, something sure, something to hold onto. It gives us somewhere to go to drown out the bad. I know I have also found these things within my mom as well. She has always been a solid thing in my life, never wavering, never making me wonder. It’s hard to think of music without thinking of her. If I described my relationship with my mom without mentioning music, I’d be doing it an injustice. The memories that last will be from music, of my mom, not of pain, or of my dad.
