These Cells Are Passages

This year marks my fifteenth year of U2 fandom. The majority of my friends hate U2, so I don't really talk about them much, to protect their sanity, or whatever. That said, I'm listening to their surprise new album at the moment, reflecting on the times I've turned to them for comfort over the years. They seem to release albums just when I need them: when I'm having a particularly difficult time with my chronic health issues, when I'm going through heartache or grief, when I'm feeling uncertain about my course in life and need reassurance. I know that sounds cheesy, but I need music. Through music, I'm more easily able to meditate and pray. I'm more easily able to see through the fog.

Hopefully the following examples will better illustrate my point. The first time I was in the hospital, after my botched surgery, I listened to How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb nearly every day until my release. I played "Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own" on repeat, when I didn't have visitors. It made me feel less alone, less angry. It gave me the additional support I needed to start healing.

When my grandfather died in October of 2011, I turned, naturally, to October. It was fitting, not only because of the month, but because it's an album very much about the loss of a parent. My grandfather was like a second father to me; he and my grandmother were directly involved in my and my sister's up-bringing. The last time I saw him, he asked me if he would see me the next day. I had to tell him that I was going home that night, but that I was planning on seeing him again "really soon." Listening to "Tomorrow" reminded me of that broken promise, my ignorance, because I never got to say goodbye to him.

During my first break-up, I listened to The Joshua Tree quite a bit, feeling forlorn and dismayed. I realized that I needed to be able to define myself outside of my relationships. Corny as it sounds, I still hadn't found what I'd been looking for, because I hadn't done enough soul searching. I knew what my dreams were, but I hadn't yet turned them into goals, believing that I was too broke(n) to achieve them. I soon realized that I needed to stop standing in my own way, and I applied to Kent State's PhD program in Rhetoric and Composition. I'm in my second year, and I'm happier than I've ever been.

While listening to the newest album, Songs of Innocence, I'm reminded of my consumption of Blake's own Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience, which directly influenced my Master's thesis. In so many ways, I am still a child, with so much to learn, and yet I have to acknowledge the experiences I've had and continue to have that make me feel so much older. I've been poked and prodded by so many doctors, I don't remember some of their names. I've dealt with crippling poverty and not being able to afford medicine. Friends have come and gone; some of them weren't friends at all, and they bullied me instead. I've confided in the wrong people. I've turned up on the wrong doorsteps. In many, many ways, however, I am incredibly blessed. There are people in my life who love me very much, as much as I love them. I have books. I have my writing. I also have U2.

I'm a deeply sentimental and reflective person. Often, I'm obnoxiously transparent. My sensitivity annoys even me, so I understand if this blog post comes across as heavily navel-gazing and strange. But these reflections needed a home. They have been rattling in my chest for a while, abstract and somewhat formless. It feels good to be able to articulate some of it. Of course, I find the words while listening to this new album. So, thanks again, U2. You're inconsistent; some of your tunes don't grab me, and you're guilty of tremendous bombast and tackiness. But I love you. Your songs are a part of my story, and I'm grateful for that.