Very recently, a little familiar piano tune “Vienna” by Billy Joel played on shuffle through my Spotify. The lyrics begin as follows:
Slow down you crazy child
You're so ambitious for a juvenile
But then if you're so smart tell me,
Why are you still so afraid?
I remember hearing this song for the first time when I was 18. Freshly accepted into the local University in Georgia, I was feeling a lot of things— some of them teenage angst, some very real emotional reactions to tragedies that occured during that time in my life.
For the sake of context, we can take it back: Middle School.
In Middle School in a small town in Georgia, I was one of 4? total Asian American students in my Middle School. True to the form of the early 2000s, I assembled a photo collage on Microsoft PowerPoint with variously filtered images attached of my friends. You can see that I easily became friends with all the BIPOC kids in the school— we were similar in that we were all different. We didn’t exactly understand what it was by a concise word; one that seems much more accessible these days for better or worse. A word like “race” or “ancestry”. I knew one thing, if I listened to the same music as all the cool kids, wore the same Hollister bird or Abercrombie moose on the bottom corner of my shirt, and listened to the same Warped tour music, I could fit in. And so I did. And I was pretty content to belong.
Songs of the moment:
As I transitioned from the fresh faced Middle Schooler to the more angsty mid-teenager, I found myself noting more and more what was inescapable: I was different. I looked different. My parents couldn’t speak English. The music that permeated our kitchen at home was of homophonic, long cries of war with a melody composed of zithers, lutes, and bamboo xylophones.
I remember going into High School, in 7th grade, I met my match— another Vietnamese girl at school named Merry! She was so stylish! She was so unaffected. Even the way she spelled her name was unique, yet unphased and recognizable. She was the contradiction a young person like me vied for: cool, but yet familiar. She looked like me. We became friends and were referred to as ‘The Twins’
Weirdly, although I had found someone who was close to me— even Vietnamese! I didn’t have some sort of epiphanic moment of “embracing myself” — instead I wanted to be like her. Badly.
Song of the moment:
The truth was, I was, so stereotypically for that age, lost. My dear immigrant parents worked all the time, so in many ways music nurtured my raging teen emotions.
I started listening to more deep cuts, songs that I felt embodied my feelings.
Songs of the moment (2008-2010)
"You" - The Pretty Reckless (C’mon, this was Jenny from Gossip Girl, in her feels— we were parallel lives from Northwest Georgia to the Upper West Side!)
"Kicking Your Crosses Down" - Circa Survive
"Built This Way" - Samantha Ronson
But as we transitioned to High School, I couldn't hide enough of myself. In truth, I loved school. I loved observing the innate good and/or bad of human nature in William Golding’s “Lord of the Flies”; I loved questioning equality, disparity and beauty in reading Kurt Vonnegut’s startling short dystopia, “Harrison Bergeron.” My loves weren’t rooted so firmly in fashion nor photo editing. I applied to a magnet program, and got in.
Songs of the moment:
During this time, songs like Minnie Riperton’s “Loving You” or The Carpenters’ “Close to You” were my safe spaces. They were ways I would connect with my older parents who were by my teen years, in their mid-50s. They had listened to this stuff in Vietnam via American radio in the 70s.
There was something really magical about this moment in my life. In High School, I packed my lunch and took a bus two hours each day to participate in a program where students came primed from families focused on educational achievement. Somehow, I finally felt like my ambitions and curiosities were in alignment with my peers. I fell in love with the community of students and professors that dared to question DuChamp’s ingenuity or would indulge in my bedtime curiosities such as, “how does tangible sensory stimulation become intangible sensory detail in our minds?” (Dubbed “the hard problem of consciousness” in psychology, I later found out this question eludes an entire academic community).
I would go home and downloaded music off of indierockcafe.com
Songs of the moment:
I was starting to fit in, and I was lucky. I was so lucky to have found what felt like my community in High School: full of curiosity, diversity, and family stories that reflected recent diaspora and immigration.
In High School, I attended my first concert: The XX. Because I still listen to this music, I count myself as finally as that elusive word, “cool” at this stage in life. But by then, I realized that wasn’t a descriptor, it was a feeling. It was skipping a soccer game on your JV sports team to go to a concert in the lesser known part of town. Being cool was to try Baklava for the first time, make shapes in long exposure with cell phone lights, and discover new eclectic music with new eclectice friends.
Songs of the Moment:
It was during this time, I brought together pieces of my story and childhood through the music I listened to. Music at this moment was my individuality-- my personhood. In my diary I saved this quote for a rainy day:
“Turn up music you really love. Play it so loudly that it soaks in through your skin.”
Songs of the Moment:
My later teen years in Georgia meant wearing cowgirl boots and going to John Mayer concerts. This was a part of my identity, though I was the only few Asian individuals at the concert, I was happy.
Unfortunately, during this time, I suffered from a family tragedy that I keep private. As I turned 18, I found myself quite depressed and scared— going into college and choosing to delve myself into too many extracurriculars, going to basement parties all while double majoring in French and Biology— telling myself that I’d make my way in this new space and pull myself out of sadness. Those songs will be saved for another playlist.
In music theory, there is the idea of syncopation— intentional discordant sounds in a song. This word presents a strange analogy to life— sounding nice once you can hear the entire piece, but a challenge to listen to while it's being composed.
When I look back at my teenage years, I think about identity a lot. I think about how many moments occurred that made me question myself, my value, and my belonging. These are not unique to the teenage experience, I know now.
The truth is, I needed Billy Joel’s advice about Vienna. As a teen, I needed to know that there was a light at the end of the tunnel. I wish for that understanding for my nieces and nephews growing up as Vietnamese Americans in the South today. And any other teenager going through life at such a hard time-- especially through the pandemic.
But I can’t ignore the beauty of the intensity those teen years had; what savoriness a song that just “hits” meant for me as a teenager growing up.
In my work today, I help run a program for dementia patients that allows them to sing and dance to music. We learned that even though some individuals may have trouble remembering their own names, they might never forget the tune to their favorite song growing up. We learn that especially during a life stage that is developmentally strenuous, the music of the time might be the best remembered.
Currently listening to:
About the Creator
Hatred
Hatred is a complex and deeply ingrained emotion that has been present in human societies throughout history. It manifests in various forms, ranging from personal animosities to large-scale conflicts fueled by ethnic, religious, or ideological differences. Understanding the nature of hatred, its causes, and its consequences is crucial for addressing its destructive impact on individuals and societies.
By Muhammad momohabout 19 hours ago in Humans
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