I had the cassette tape of their 1996 album, "More Than You Know." For years I listened to it obsessively. The words and melodies became so ingrained that I could sing the entire album to myself, without the music. I loved it more than my Point of Grace cassette tape, more than my Avalon cassette tape, more than my Wizard of Oz soundtrack! Obviously, I really hadn't discovered secular music at this point. Or CDs. But that's besides the point.I have no idea what happened to my collection of cassette tapes--maybe I threw them away? I'm not even sure when I last owned something with a tape deck in it. And my musical tastes have obviously evolved since 1996. Back then I had about ten cassette tapes, now I have 12 days worth of music on my iPod. Now I prefer music of the indie alt-folk variety--basically, give me a guy sitting on a bar stool with an acoustic guitar (banjo is optional) and I'm happy. If he's British, even better.
But I discovered earlier tonight that I can still sing every single word of "More Than You Know." Every single word, every ad lib, and yes, every rap break! Every so often, I like to listen to the bands I loved when I was younger, the nineties rock bands and boy bands and pop groups. I like to jam to Goo Goo Dolls and sing my heart out with Mariah Carey and laugh as I listen to *N SYNC or Backstreet Boys. (Only legit fans remember the asterisk!) But only certain songs really, viscerally throw me back to my childhood.
It was so much simpler back then. It's not that I miss childhood--I don't! I remember when growing up, I'd have friends who wished they could be five again, so that they wouldn't have to deal with homework or algebra or boy troubles. I was never like that: I always wanted to be older. I couldn't learn fast enough, I couldn't grow up fast enough. I felt frustrated by my ignorance.
Listening to Out of Eden makes me think of: that garish pink tape player I had. I think of my old friend Leah Dykstra. I think of laying on the carpet, drawing or reading Sweet Valley High books. It reminds me of Trinity Christian School: the playground, art class, Mrs. Penn. It reminds me of Sunday school and Children's church. I think of playing Barbies--my favorites were Baywatch Mitch (he came with a Sea-Doo and a life preserver), and a brown-haired Barbie I named Caroline. Yep, my favorite guy Barbie was based on David Hasslehoff. How nineties! I think of American Girl magazine, I think of horse camp at Camp Campbell Gard. I think of sleepovers. I think of how simply, purely, unthinkingly I loved Jesus then. I think about how I wanted to be a veterinarian, or an artist, or a judge.
I feel like I'm obsessed with remembering my childhood lately. Not just the events, the crushes, the school field trips, but the feeling, the sense I had of myself. The sense I had of my place in the world, and of my family. What did I think about my Dad? What did I think about my future? Did I feel secure and hopeful? I try to scrape together the memories, but most of the time they're only a whisper, a scattering of thoughts buried beneath the buzz and clamor of my current life. Texts and emails, phone calls and meetings, responsibilities and bills all shout for my attention. Anxiety and grief and desire and boredom chase one another around my head and my heart. I look at the blue sky, but I don't even see it through my mental checklist: Get to work. Do laundry later. Turn left.
I can't stop trying to reconcile Me, now, with Me, then. Or even with Me, at 15. So much has changed. A while ago, I dug out my high school diary and found an entry I'd written the day before I started my first real job. I was so excited to receive my first "real" paycheck! I wrote about how I had just finished driver's ed and I was excited but nervous about the responsibility of driving. I wrote about how much older I felt. I wrote about how I was totally not going to obsess about boys, like, ever again.
Today, I think about how different I am from that 15 year old girl: I'm wiser, I'm older. I know what it is to work, I know sacrifice and sleep deprivation and dedication. I know heartbreak. I understand how ambiguous life can be. I've traveled the bumpy, dirt roads of East Africa, sat through the sudden downpours and smelled the flowers (as well as the filth) in Nairobi. I've walked the dusty streets of West Africa, felt the tug of the Atlantic ocean swirling about my legs. I've seen the beauty and brokenness of the children of the slums. I've sat in English pubs and dashed down cobblestone streets and explored centuries-old Welsh castles. I've fallen into books and reveled in others' words and fought to find my own. I've been drunk and sick and made a fool out of myself, more than once. I've filled out a million applications, for jobs and programs and schools. I've gotten rejections. I had a paper published. I discovered what I actually think about social and political issues. I've voted. I watched my dad die.
I think. I think I'm happy to be where I am. Regardless of the tears that brought me here. Listening to old favorites like Out of Eden reminds me that I really am the same girl. She isn't lost, she isn't forgotten. She isn't even far away: I still have her drive, her joy, her love of learning and a good '90s urban gospel song.
Jessie at 10, listening to cassette tapes and dreaming of the future. Jess at 15, learning to drive. Jessica at 23, learning...I'm not sure what, yet.
Every once in a while, since Dad passed, I've thought to myself, I wouldn't want my life to have happened any differently. And most of the time, it's true.
