I bought a shirt with sloppy letters jumbled on the front. Andrew Jackson’s crinkled face emerges from my pocket. I stood in front the merchandise tent of my favorite band; similarly to the way a small child eagerly awaits Santa Clause on Christmas Eve. My shoulders lugubriously shrugged when I realized that the regional rep, not one of the band members, handed me my shirt. The cotton absorbed the nervous sweat that painted my palms. On the back, nothing but an abyss of white and future figments of grass stains. I begin to walk away, the tank top swung from my belt loop as I stared down at my tattered Chucks. I walked around, trying to avoid the Pac Sun onslaught while also trying to swallow the disappointment of not meeting one of the band members. Though I loved the shirt, nothing special distinguished it from anything else that I could have simply purchased online. I had been hoping for at least one of them to etch a signature across the shirt, transforming it from an ordinary piece of clothing to a memory. As I continued to trudge through the Billabong mob, a familiar face appeared in the furthest reaches of my peripheral vision. My heart rate increased and the butterflies in my stomach churned. I turned to the side to make sure that I wasn’t dreaming. Upon realizing that the girl before me was no mirage, I charged forward and exclaiming her most famous lyric, “I want your autograph!”
As I look at the shirt hanging in my closet now, the beautiful signature tattooed on the back, I reflect back on the euphoria that I experienced upon seeing my favorite band at the Warped Tour. However, it was not only the exhilaration of the music, the crowd and the excitement that inscribed this experience into my memory. It was hearing the lyrics that I had heard so many times before, lyrics that had pursued me, no matter where I was, lyrics that had a profound influence on my adolescence, shaping my perceptions of reality and life. Hearing my favorite band live simply added another layer to the memories I have associated with their songs. Now, when I listen to Sick of Sarah's music it evokes memories of pure joy that I felt during the concert, and just the memory of such unadulterated pleasure is enough to bring me comfort during any situation because I know opportunities for such happiness will exist again in the future.
