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Bittersweet: The Search for the Authentic Self (Part I)

© Regina Sewell

Winter, 1990. The Newport. Columbus, Ohio. The Indigo Girls are playing, and I wait with several friends for three hours in the snow to get good seats. We’re on the second row. My friends are huge Indigo Girl fans. They went to the autograph signing at a record store earlier in the afternoon. I smugly told them that I wouldn’t want anyone’s autograph unless I wanted to sleep with them. I fall in love with Amy Ray by the end of the second song. She sings the song of my soul. I’m not so smug about the autographs anymore.

We are not drinking anything but water, but I feel high on the music, on the enthusiasm of the crowd, and on being one of the girls. We’re all in the same graduate program. Even though we come from different states and have had different life experiences, we’re under the same oppressive regime now. Graduate school is sort of like Army boot camp in that way. We share a very public but intimate experience, and for the first time, all the feelings I’m having are not only ok; they’re beautiful. Right in this moment in time, I love these women and the music and my life. This is a transcending experience.

Almost a decade later, this memory leaves me feeling both warm and grateful, and sad, raw, and somehow empty. This was the first time I ever really let go and showed my true self to people, and they accepted me, the real me, in that moment. For a brief period, we were all totally real. There were no barriers, masks, games, or competitions driving walls between us. The downside is that the experience was short-lived. At some point we all went home, and put back on our masks and went back to our games. But I had a taste of how beautiful life could be, and it hurt to put my armor back on.

Winter quarter, 1991. I load my guitar into my truck, pick up a sixpack of beer and head for Kim’s house. We’re getting together to play guitar. I haven’t played in front of many people, and have never played with anyone else. I feel absolutely naked and vulnerable for the first 20 minutes. Luckily, the beer kicks in and takes some of the edge off. And then something happens. The rush of making music with someone else overpowers the embarrassment. I’m taking a risk, and it feels good. Somewhere in those chords, my true self comes out, unobstructed by my usual need to “be cool” or “smart” or “perfect” or whatever image I am supposed to maintain. I’m just there, in the moment, in the music, with Kim. Kim seems to be in the same place. Our music, while probably far from perfect, is authentic, from the heart. It’s like we’re flying, I feel so free. We quit sometime around midnight, after our fingers hurt and we’ve run out of potato chips.

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