Written by Bella Payne | Bella Payne: Vocals, Acoustic Guitar | Brian Jerin: Electric Guitar, Production | Jude Kahle: Bass, Saxophone, Production | John Boote: Drums, Production | Rebecca Zapen: Violin, Vocals, Production | Betsey Federman: Cello, Production | Chris Estes: Producer
See I am 18 and I can’t feel my head. This is what it feels like at three a.m. Just another night before I scream And wake from this old tattered engine car crash dream
It’s late at night and I am lying in my twin bed with a thin blanket and the fan going as fast as it can. The air conditioner doesn’t work as well on the second level of our small townhouse, and I can’t sleep.
Each night I only get about four hours of sleep. It is killing me.
The Next Morning
It’s early — too early for anyone else to be at school — and I’m driving my old ‘85 blue Dodge hatchback through the quiet streets. The car door no longer opens from the outside, so I have to leave the window opened just enough for me to slide my arm in to open from the outside, and in Florida it rains a lot. That means my car is scented with the sour stench of moldy fabric that’s endured too many inadvertent tropical washings. I’ve gotten used to it.
As I stop at the red light on the two lane road, I put another cassette into the small boombox I keep in the center compartment between the two front seats, since this model did not come with its own. The Sugarcubes: Here Today, Tomorrow, Next Week.
The tape starts a few moments into the song “Pump” and Bjork’s expressive voice sings in a suggestive manner before her male counterpart comes in with a totally different vibe that’s startling and aggressive. It’s one of my favorite songs on the album. I wonder how Bjork gained so much confidence to be so uniquely herself. I long to write songs in such a strange way, because I myself feel strange, and I fear writing songs as I truly want to, because what if everyone laughs at me or thinks I’m so weird they will no longer associate with me.
Oh when you’re alone… I’ll never let it show…
The fear of humiliation is a constantly nagging brat tugging at my sleeve. She fears the days before people found out I could make them feel nice with my singing voice. Those days were so lonely, my feelings about myself that I was some kind of alien not meant for this realm.
Singing liberated me from my isolation, and I will do anything to protect that. The fear of going back is too great for me to risk. I can’t risk it by writing anything too weird. But then I continue to listen to this strange band and I love it. I love it so much. Her crazy vocalizations and his insane musical expressions of hating someone, but in such a fun and melodic manner.
It’s there I realize the secret to great art: You don’t care about what anyone thinks. You express what you want to express and trust the audience will come to you.
The Piano Lab
The school is almost empty when I arrive. A few teachers’ cars in the lot, the janitor’s truck, but that’s it. I make my way to the piano lab. This is my ritual — get here before anyone else, practice in silence, let the music drown out everything else.
Mrs. Steiner opens up the piano lab every morning an hour before school, as well as an hour after school. She encourages us to take advantage of this chance to practice. All the music majors are required to take Keyboard 1, and she knows we don’t all own pianos at home. I love her for this. Right now, there’s no one else in the lab. I love it when this happens.
The room is lined with three rows of Clavinovas, and I sit down at one right up front, plug in my headphones, and I start to play. Scales first, then arpeggios, then whatever my hands feel like doing. The notes fill my head and I let my mind wander.
I haven’t slept well since the year I was thirteen, which at this point is a little over four years ago. Most nights I’m lucky if I hit four hours. I don’t nod off in class like most would, but each afternoon I do feel that icky grossness inside me that I can tell is a longing for the release of sleep, but there is no bed nearby and won’t be for at least six more hours. It’s horrible.
Sometimes, in the afternoon, when it’s really taking its toll, I can get a little snappy with my friends, and I instantly feel bad. I don’t want to be this kind of person. I want to be a happy, sweet ray of sunshine all the time, but sometimes I am just too tired. Knowing that I have to go to work immediately after school three days a week is something I voluntarily committed to, but on days like this, I really hate my life.
And it’s in those moments the resentments start to creep up.
My fingers move through a minor scale as I think of the posh dancer I saw yesterday, going to her brand new leased car. I assumed she was going straight home. That or she was joining her other posh friends somewhere fun, maybe for pizza or nachos. She doesn’t have to work because her parents make enough money to pay for everything she wants and she doesn’t even realize how lucky she is. I start to hate this girl with so much passion, before I finally catch myself. I was startled by the loud volume in my ears as my hands were beginning to hit the keys a little too hard. My jaw is clenched. I stop playing, take a deep breath, and remember she has nothing to do with my life.
I search my mental database for things to look forward to.
Well no one wants to hear it anymore so why should I explain myself? And all the words come pouring out of your two eyes without a single sound. Who’s sorry now? Who’s sorry now?
My new friend Robin brought her guitar to school yesterday. I did not realize she was a musician. Her focus at the school is visual arts, but as I found out on day one, many of the artists play some kind of rock instrument and write songs and jam with their friends. I asked Robin if she would ever want to get together to make music sometime and she was totally on board. As I think of this, my rage melts quickly into excitement.
I have dreamed of this moment for a long time. The opportunity to make music with a friend. This could be the start of something amazing. We have plans to meet after school tomorrow, when I don’t have to work.
My hands find a happier chord progression as I think about Robin — her goofy nature and passion for music and incredible talent for songwriting. We worked on a song she was writing and we did the same with mine. Robin is clearly better at this than I am, but I am looking forward to learning from her.
I am suddenly filled with so much gratitude and energy. Suddenly I love my life. I am back in the field of determination. I am certain I will be a successful singer and songwriter.
And let me ask you this my friend, were you expecting me to just explain? Cuz I know I would take those empty hands and fill them with a million quiet souls.
But then my father’s face flashes through my mind and my fingers stumble on the keys.
He was just diagnosed with something called PTSD, something to do with his time in the Vietnam War, and now it’s all supposed to make sense: his crazy outbursts and his weird quitting behavior where he just sits in the chair all day staring at nothing, getting thinner and thinner and meaner and meaner.
And now that he has a medical condition, I am just supposed to forgive and forget. Just like that! My feelings are mixed, and that same spark of insanity starts to take over me, two voices at once arguing over how to think about something. He’s a victim. No he’s a jerk. No he has suffered. But he has made me suffer! Which one is it? Which one is right?
I play louder, letting the dissonance match what I feel inside.
Downstairs I am calm. They’ll steal your thoughts. They’ll steal your soul.
One good thing that has come of this: I finally have some money to pay for voice lessons. Because his condition is so bad, he now qualifies for V.A. disability money, and some of that comes in a check for me. As soon as I found out about this, I looked up the number to Mrs. McEntire. She was the best voice teacher at my school and I desperately wanted private lessons with her. Now I could afford it. So each month, I sign over my VA check to her, and I’m starting to make real progress!
I can tell she thinks I’m as weird as Ms. Davis does, but Mrs. McEntire is nicer and tries to make me feel comfortable. I wonder if it’s because I’m paying her, but it doesn’t matter, because I’m singing better now.
No one’s in the backyard, No one’s picking up the phone And no one wants to hear your secrets so just leave and let it go I refuse to let the future get inside me like the past I will speak until I’m gone forever more.
The bell rings. First period. I turn the keyboard off and gather my things. The hallway is filling with students now, the noise swallowing the silence I’d been sitting in. But somewhere in my chest, I carry the quiet with me.
Two Months Later
Robin and I have been working hard at perfecting a song, and tonight is the night we perform! It’s my first time ever signing up for an open mic night and I am so nervous. I have spent every night for the last two weeks mentally rehearsing while lying in bed. I want it to be perfect. I want people to love our song. I want people to like me!
That scared little brat is tugging at me again, but I shush her and tell her we are doing this. She quiets down.
It’s around 7:30 and my mom is still at her second job at the mall, so it’s just my sister holed up in her bedroom and my dad in the living room. As I enter the living room to tell him I’m leaving, I notice the lights are off, and something is strange. There is a weird feeling in the room. My chest tightens and I stop breathing. For a moment it feels like my heart has stopped and I realize I am holding my breath. Something is wrong.
I step carefully into the room and see my dad crouched in the corner and he is whisper-yelling my name. I get closer and ask him what’s wrong. I can feel my breath coming out in short little bursts, tiny sips of air and I brace myself. The muscles in my shoulders have tightened up as if my upper back has blended with my neck. In a desperate voice, he begs me to stay home.
I can’t believe this. I am about to finally go after my dreams, finally about to show up and announce to the world I’m a singer-songwriter and I have something to say, and he wants me to stay home?
I don’t feel scared anymore. Just annoyed. My shoulders relax. I ask him what is wrong, and in a trembling voice he tells me that “they” are out there. I ask him who “they” are, and he says in a voice mixed with fear, frustration, and achey desperation, “The Viet Cong!”
And suddenly I get it. The condition.
Pity replaces the fear and rage. I just want to cry now for my dad and myself. My dad, because he is a grown-ass man afraid of ghosts, and myself because moments like this remind me that I have no real father, and it’s been that way for a long time. I’ve been without a dad for so many years.
I let out a sigh, and I tell him it will be ok, because I will go back to my room and lock the door. At this point, I have figured out what to do when this happens. So I go back in and wait. After 20 minutes or so, I sneak back to the living room and I’m so glad to see he is asleep. His medication must have kicked in. I look at the clock and wonder if I still have time to make it.
The drive to The Midnight Owl normally takes about twenty minutes, but I’m driving as fast as I can to shave off at least ten minutes. In the dark I drive past the huge mall where my mom has her second job, continue on to the quieter main road, past the gas station, the body shop, and the strip club. Past the trailer park and the housing project masking as a legitimate apartment complex. We lived in one of those neighborhoods for a year, so they don’t fool me. New siding and mowed lawns don’t change the truth of what it really is.
I’m still annoyed at being held up by my dad’s delusions, but my thoughts are attempting to focus on what is about to happen.
In about 30 minutes, Robin and I will get up on a small stage in front of many people, people who are drinking alcohol or coffee, people who are waiting to go up and read their poetry, the room dimly lit, the vibe sacred with respect for the arts and expression, and we will sing our new song.
The thought makes my hands shake, but I quickly reframe. I take a deep breath in and I pretend I am driving home after the performance. I imagine I feel good about it. I feel my shoulders relax and my energy shift into grateful excitement over the warm responses I received after the performance. I keep my mind focused on that image. I’m almost there.
I can feel the back of my neck begin to sweat despite the comfortable climate outside. Florida nights are amazing. Balmy breezes make it easy to sit outside in a tank top and shorts, maybe a cardigan if it begins to feel a little cold. I live for the night time. It’s where I feel the most myself.
I finally arrive at the strip mall that houses this cool place known mainly for its live jazz nights. All the musicians at school rave about those wild jam sessions that go as late into the night as the local residents will allow. But I love the open mic nights for poetry and original songs. It’s mostly poetry, and being there makes me feel as if I don’t live in a shitty town just an hour south of the Florida-Georgia line, but rather, a sophisticated neighborhood in New York City.
On nights like this, I imagine I live somewhere cool and unusual. Somewhere where everyone has their own unique style confidently expressed through their wardrobe. A place where strangers talk about the novels they’re reading and what do they think about the latest PJ Harvey album?
Then I come down to reality and decide to just be grateful that some kind of scene exists where I live.
Robin has already put our names on the list and we have a few more people to go before it’s our turn. She isn’t annoyed at all by my lateness, and I feel grateful for her. I’m so used to people in my life taking every opportunity to get mad at me, but Robin just goes with the flow.
I can’t focus on the lovely middle-aged Black woman reading what sounds like a very powerful poem. I can’t hear her words, but her energy is magnetic and her voice is indeed hypnotizing. But I am so focused on my own goal, imagining myself walking up to the stage, calmly sitting down, and singing.
The applause jolts me out of my daydream and the host calls our names.
I take a deep breath and begin to channel a persona of someone calm and professional, cool and relaxed about sharing her most vulnerable thoughts in song. No one can ever tell how scared I am.
As I sit down, I can feel my nerves taking over. One thing I have learned at the school is that you never show your fear to the audience, so I am tensing up a lot of muscles in an effort to appear calm. Before I begin playing my guitar, my fingers do a weird little twitching pattern. It feels familiar, like the little twitch I do with my left shoulder every time I am about to enter a social situation.
Ever since childhood, I have had these weird little tics that I’ve done my best to hide from everyone.
Weird or not, the ritual helps, and I play with ease and complete focus. Robin plays her part and we begin to sing together. The audience is hooked. I can feel it in the silence. My muscles begin to relax as I feel authentically calm, finally.
As I sing, I close my eyes and enter another realm, another dimension. The audience disappears. All of my troubles go away, and for a few minutes, I am in complete bliss. When the song ends, the loud applause breaks my spell and I come back to the cafe. A feeling of love washes over me as I see the faces of admiration and respect. The feeling I have in that moment is so good. So different from anything I have ever experienced before.
Pure acceptance. Loving attention. I feel as if I am floating, and I realize I will have to do everything I can to keep writing songs that will get me back to that feeling.
The feeling of floating carries me all the way back home, but as I park my car in the dark driveway and look up at the front door, my stomach sinks a little as I remember that image of my dad cowering in the corner, realizing that if I want to feel that peace again, I will not be able to rely on it at home.
Only in song. Only on the stage.
The house is still dark when I walk in, my mom having arrived home from work just a few hours before, everyone asleep. I bring my guitar to what used to be the screened-in porch before my dad converted it into a small music room for me — real walls now, tile floor, a window A.C. unit. It’s mine. I turn on the A.C., switch on a lamp, and unpack my guitar.
I am still feeling pretty high from the experience I just had.
Singing in the school choir and in church for several years brought me a lot of joy, but this was different… I guess because this time… it was totally me.
Me singing with my true voice, not the one Mrs. Davis insisted on.
Me singing my lyrics, and not the ones meant to “invite the spirit.”
Just me and Robin. Being ourselves with our guitars. Creating a moment that felt just as impressive as what I did at school, and just as sacred as what I did at church.
But this time, what I did was 100% from my soul.
After so many years of swallowing my feelings for fear of punishment, I felt as if I had discovered some kind of buried treasure. A key to unlock the prison I felt stuck in. A way out of this personal hell, and despite whatever had happened before I went to The Midnight Owl tonight, I knew I had found my path to liberation. And it felt good.
Read Chapter Three:
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Music Credits:
Song written by Bella Payne
Bella Payne: Vocals, Acoustic Guitar
Brian Jerin: Electric Guitar, Production
Jude Kahle: Bass, Saxophone, Production
John Boote: Drums, Production
Rebecca Zapen: Violin, Vocals, Production
Betsey Federman: Cello, Production
Chris Estes: Producer