And they don't understand what they don't see

 

I'm a bit obsessed with music. I always need a soundtrack. Music for public transit, for walking, for reading. I am almost always playing something in the background. The music I love helped me define myself. I found my soul through the songs I love. I can track my first steps out of one of the darker chapters in my life to a couple of concerts I went to that helped me remember who I wanted to be. 

That said, I absolutely hate being asked what my favourite song is. It changes from one day to the next. There are too many. But I can tell you the first song, the first video that made me feel truly seen. That felt like it was staring back at me, telling me what I already knew. It was like staring into my future. And like looking into a mirror. Like someone recognized me for what I was desperately trying to change, to hide. 

The thing is, I don't know what exactly it is about this song, this video. It's a song I relate to, but far more as an adult than I could have in the mid-90s. The song itself isn't explicitly gay. I had seen (very few) depictions of lesbians. But I think this just made it look plausible. Because I knew I wasn't butch or femme. I didn't fit those stereotypes (nothing wrong with anyone who does, it just isn't me). But this looked like something I could be. It made me want to get a car and drive away with my girl. No destination, no plan, just somewhere else. I felt stifled, I felt trapped. Nowhere to go. But I could run away with my girl someday.

Honestly, this song might have started my low key obsession with songs about getting in your car and driving off with the girl you love to start over. The road songs. And it's kind of what I ended up doing. 

Anyway, I don't have a big point to make here. Maybe I'm the only one who felt this way. But the culture we grow up in helps define us. And this was a beacon of light, of comfort. And it also felt like an accusation. Like the TV screen was looking at me screaming "This is what you are." Like if I watched the video too much, someone would walk in the room and accuse me of being gay. I felt like I couldn't buy a Melissa Etheridge album without everyone knowing. I felt like if I could just make it through high school, I could run away and start over. I felt trapped, I felt seen, I felt too much.

Representation matters. It has been said so many times that it starts to lose meaning, but it's still true. It has to feel possible before it can feel easier. And honestly, in the 90's and the early 2000s, in my youth, there weren't a lot of things that told me if was possible. I didn't take a chance on myself. I didn't dare tell anyone. But I did let myself dream. Of finding my girl and running away. I knew it was possible. Melissa Etheridge gave me that gift of a small amount of hope.