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The coldest day of my life had nothing to do with winter creeping into Washington. Not even close. I grew up in northern Michigan where snow storms could slam down as early as mid-October and refuse to leave for half the year. I moved to the Pacific Northwest to escape that. Give me rain over 6 months of ice any day. This cold was different. It wasn't the kind that numbs your fingers or stings your face. This one settled deep inside me, turning my heart to stone, heavy and unyielding. I didn't know a feeling like that could exist, and I certainly wasn't ready for the whirlwind that followed. The week ahead was a blur of icy desolation.
It was early Sunday afternoon, and I'd slept in later than usual. The night before had drained me. I had been pushing through my admissions application to the University of Washington Tacoma, determined to secure a spot in the social work cohort next fall. It mattered. I wanted this. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I thought back to the last steps I'd taken in the application process. I remembered reaching the section that had asked for my parents information. Around 6:30 p.m. I grabbed my phone and sent my dad a quick text, knowing it would be 9:30 p.m. for him back in Michigan. “Dad, what college did you graduate from?” I was pretty sure I knew, but I couldn't quite remember. He answered right away, he always did. Dad was a night owl always up late.
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I reached for my phone, my first instinct every morning. As soon as I picked it up, a strange unease settled over me. The screen was littered with missed calls. Twenty-three of them. My aunt, my brothers, and several unknown numbers. My stomach tightened. Each missed call felt like a weight stacking up in my chest, making it harder to breathe. My heart pounded, my thoughts racing too fast to catch. Something was wrong. With shaking hands, I dialed my aunt. The ringing stretched endlessly, every second twisting my nerves tighter. When she finally answered, her voice was raw, thick with grief. "Heather, honey…” A pause. A sharp inhale. Then - “Your father, he's gone.” The words hit like a punch to the gut, and my mind immediately rejected them. No. That's not possible. I was just texting him last night. But reality didn't wait for me to catch up. The next moments were a visceral storm of grief. A scream ripped from my throat as I lashed out, kicking the door with my feet, again and again, until the wood splintered beneath me. My fists pounded the walls, my arms taking the brunt of the impact but I didn't care; bruises already forming, blooming under my skin. I sank to the floor, my chest heaving, my whole body trembling as I gasped for air that wouldn't come.
It's Wednesday. I'm at the Seattle airport, booking a flight home to Michigan. Exhaustion clings to me, wrapping me in a haze that refuses to lift. As I stand in line at the check in counter the fluorescent lights hum and flicker, casting a sterile glow over the travelers around me. Strangers rushing to holiday gatherings, vacations, lives that haven't just been shattered. The agent of the counter is kind but detached, her practiced words are a stark contrast to the storm inside me. She offers a small condolence and a $50 bereavement discount. It's something, I guess. But what is $50 in the face of losing my father?
I find a seat near my gate and pull out my phone, my fingers moving on autopilot as I text loved ones, arrange my stay, and update social media: Hi everyone, I'll have more information about my father's memorial service when I get there. Please be patient. My heart is ripped wide open. The words feel empty compared to what I'm carrying inside.
As one of my dad's three kids, I'm the farthest away, the last to make it home. The thought gnaws at me as the boarding call comes. Around me, people chat excitedly, making holiday plans, laughing at inside jokes. I cannot fathom how the world keeps spinning, how joy still exists when my dad died two weeks before Christmas. My chest tightens, my throat burns. I have no idea how I'm going to make it through this flight.
As I cram myself into my seat, tears spill down my cheeks, silent but relentless. The weight of it all crashes over me in waves, too heavy to hold back. I fumble for my phone, desperate for a distraction, anything to avoid the clawing at my chest. I open my Audible app and, without thinking, I type “grief” into the search bar - a word I was never ready to explore until now. The first title that appears, Grief is Love by Marissa Renee Lee, catches my eye. Something about it feels right. I press play, and as a plane lifts off, her voice fills my ears, steady and knowing. She gets it. For the first time since that phone call, I feel a small sort of comfort, like someone is reaching through the darkness, telling me I'm not alone.
Touchdown, Detroit. I move through the motions, waiting in line for my rental car as snow falls in thick sheets outside. I stare at it, lost in thought, my mind already on the hour and a half drive ahead. It's been nearly three years since I last navigated roads like these, ice packed and unforgiving. A flicker of nervousness stirs in my gut, but as I slide into the driver seat, muscle memory kicks in. I spent fifteen winters driving through Michigan's worst. I breathe deep. I can do this.
I arrived late in the evening at the family farm, the place my dad called home. Stepping through the door, I was met with the sight of familiar faces. The air smelled of coffee - strong and steady, like my aunt, who had been busy receiving visitors. The house felt the same but different, the walls holding echoes of laughter that now felt distant, almost unreachable. Eyes turned toward me, filled with unspoken sadness. My hands trembled as I exchanged awkward hugs and whispered condolences, my body moving through the motions while my mind struggled to catch up. This house, once a place of childhood memories, now felt like a gathering space for our shared loss.
Friday morning arrived, though I barely registered the passing of time. Sleep had eluded me. My body felt hollowed out, as if grief had carved away anything that once held me together. My head throbbed, my stomach churned from days without eating. Weariness settled in my limbs, but my mind refused to quiet. I had listened to Grief is Love twice since downloading it on my flight home, clinging to its words like a lifeline, hoping they might carry me through.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I tried to gather my thoughts. The days were blurring together, slipping by faster than I could hold onto. Everything felt too heavy, too overwhelming. There was so much to do, so many details to manage. And then, my brothers asked me to write our father's obituary. I had agreed without hesitation, but now, staring at the blank page before me, doubt crept in. How do you fit a life into a few paragraphs? How do you capture the depth of a man who meant so much? What do you leave in? What do you leave out? The task felt impossible but I had to try. My mind is a jumbled mess as I open my notes app, trying to create some semblance of order for the day. The list feels endless: pick up a funeral outfit - because I still have nothing to wear, and figure out everything else. I let out a heavy sigh and toss my phone aside, massaging my temples, the weight of it all threatening to crush me.
Moments later my aunt appears at the door. She's been working non-stop on the farm, attending to work that never seems to end. “Heather, when you go into town could you grab a rotisserie chicken from the store? It’ll be something easy for supper.” I nod automatically, adding “pick up a chicken” to my list. As I glance at my phone again, the reality hits me - I'm unprepared for everything today. Find a funeral outfit. Get the chicken. Finish my father's obituary. And somehow, through it all, be present for the people gathering at the memorial home later. I head out to run my errands. Each step feels heavier than the last.
It’s Friday evening, and I'm wearing a scratchy overpriced sweater I picked up from town, nothing I’d ever choose for myself; but it's black and I'm in mourning. As I walk into the memorial home, the sheer number of people inside overwhelms me. Faces shift and merge, some familiar, some strangers who must have known my dad. They move through the room, offering words of sympathy, and I feel like I'm drowning in their kindness, and their grief. It's painful but amidst the sea of people, I find a strange comfort. These were his people - those who loved him. And for a moment., I can feel his presence in the room, surrounded by all the hearts that knew him.
I arrive late back at the farm after everyone else has gone to bed. Hunger pains my stomach. I remember the chicken I picked up earlier and hurry to the kitchen. The house is still, the only sound is the soft hum of the refrigerator. I open it, and the gentle light spills out, casting a warm glow over the counter and onto the floor. Grabbing a fork, I dig into the cold chicken with a hunger that feels almost frantic. I'm relieved it's still there, untouched.
Standing in the kitchen, the chill of the room surrounds me, and I finally take in the simplicity of the moment. I have barely eaten since all this began, my body refusing to accept food. But here, in the stillness, I find comfort in the act of nourishing myself for the first time in days. The familiarity of my aunt's home, the soft echoes of laughter and stories shared earlier, ease their way into my chest. It’s as though in this quiet space, the love and support from those who came to honor my dad has given me the strength to eat, to breathe, to rest. I realize that I'm not alone in this - that their presence, their shared grief, have allowed me to take the smallest step towards healing. Eating the cold rotisserie chicken in the dim light of the kitchen, I feel a fragile thread of comfort. It's a reminder that even the darkest moments, there are small pieces of connection, and glimpses of peace to be found.
Saturday, we said goodbye to my father. After the service we gathered back at the farm, swapping stories around a fire, toasting Jack and Coke in his memory beneath the frigid Michigan sky. The air nipped at our skin, but we stayed close, finding warmth in each other and in the shared love we had for him. Sunday morning, I pull out my phone and see that my dad's obituary has been shared online. I read the words I wrote, hoping I did him justice. “Lansing Community College,” I say out loud in the quiet bedroom. The college where he graduated from in 1982 with his associates degree. It hit me hard how I had started this week uncertain, asking him for details, only to use that very information in his obituary. A cold wave washes over me again. I'm sad and deeply heartbroken. This is grief, unpredictable and relentless, just like the winter storms I grew up in
But even amidst the sadness, there's a flicker of something else, a quiet realization. The stories shared around that fire, the warmth of those who loved him, the simple act of eating that cold chicken in my aunt's kitchen… these moments, however small, are helping me navigate through the darkness. Grief doesn't freeze you in place; it slowly, painfully, allows you to thaw, to start moving again, even if it's just one small step at a time.
I set my phone down and curl back up under the blankets, and as I lie there, I realize that this is only the beginning of the journey. Grief doesn't end with a funeral. It lingers, shaping your world in ways that you can't anticipate. The love and support of friends and family- those who showed up with their own stories and grief - have started to chip away at the ice around my heart, allowing a tiny bit of warmth to pour through. As I close my eyes, I hold on to that warmth, knowing it will guide me through the cold, uncertain days ahead.
When I was just a kid, I hated the texture and taste of all cooked vegetables, but as I matured, I began to try new things more often. Eventually I came to love many of my mom’s homemade meals at the dining table that contained the bright greenery that I once despised. And to this day, I still regularly try new and old things.
But of all the meals that I have tried and fell in love with, nothing compares to my mom’s Kale Soup. While the title of this dish might not sound appealing at first (kale is not the first ingredient that most think of when they hear “soup”), I can say with certainty that it is one of the most relaxing and warming meals that anyone can eat. Technically speaking, it is a recipe that my mom developed from another similar dish called Zuppa Toscana. This particular dish hails from the Tuscany region in Northern Italy. I should note that there are differences between the recipes and that mine is by no means a better version of the original. It is merely the version that my mom made for my siblings and me.
It is also the first meal that my mom ever taught me how to make, but before I learned how to make it, I learned how my dad made his version of Kale Soup. He did not teach me step by-step how to make it, but I did notice many differences between the soup that I had grown up with. While the soup does contain kale, it also includes bacon, potatoes, and ground sausage. My mom always made the soup with a balanced ratio between the ingredients, but my dad did not. He liked to make the meal meaty as hell! Often when I ate his version, most of the grease from the meat remained in the soup. It burned my throat, not to an uncomfortable degree. When I ate the greasy meat, it was more like a tickle than an actual burning sensation. Although, I did burn my mouth on many a mishandled hot bowls of soup. However, I did learn from my dad that dipping bread (preferably sourdough or homemade French bread) into the soup added a new depth of flavor to the already amazing meal. While the chicken broth has a sort of sweet flavor to it, the bread absorbs the liquid and turns it into a soft and sweet mixture that just begs to be eaten.
It was not long after that when I learned how to make the soup step by step from my mom. I recall that I had asked her one day how to make it. She could have just explained the meal to me, or handed me the actual physical recipe, but she asked that I make it with her. Up until that point (which was about five years ago by my current age) I had helped her with numerous other meals, but not like this. She was my shadow while I made Kale Soup. With every step in the recipe, she was right there with me. Explaining what to do and giving me tips along the way. And while I prepared the meal, I wrote down all her instructions on a little white card. I knew I would be making the meal again, and I did not want to forget what she had taught me.
After I finished making that first Kale Soup, she and I ate it together on the couch while watching Lord of the Rings. At one point, I remember her telling me that she could hear soup boiling from the living room. I had left the burner on low to keep it warm, but she told me that it should remain silent. That was the final tip she taught me for Kale Soup. And as we ate the soup together, I was able to taste my work. It was different from what my mom regularly made, but I liked it. The soft bits of potatoes in the soup would just melt in my mouth as I ate them, and the bacon and ground sausage gave it a mild spice kick right to my tongue. The broth was still sweet like my dad’s, but it didn’t tickle my throat the same way. The broth was thick and warm, and rather than it making my throat feel funny, it went straight to my chest. It warmed me up, and I felt relaxed. It was like being put to sleep by a nursery rhyme. And after that, I realized that it was the perfect meal to eat before falling asleep.
Kale Soup
Ingredients:
1 whole bag of kale to be chopped
1 pound of ground hot Italian sausage
3 large cloves of garlic
8 teaspoons of bouillon chicken base broth
8 cups of water
10 red potatoes
1/2 a cup of heavy whipping cream
3 long strips of bacon
Optional: sliced Sourdough bread or French bread
Tools:
1 Dutch oven pot
1 long knife
1 garlic press
1 strainer
1 ladle
Measuring tools
1 large oven burner
Instructions:
Cut bacon strips into small pieces and cook them along with the hot Italian sausage in the Dutch oven pot at medium temperature. Make sure to break up the sausage into tiny pieces while it is cooking.
Once the meat is done, drain the grease from the put by pouring the meat into a strainer in the sink. Keep it there for a few minutes until grease stops leaking from the bottom.
Return the meat to the Dutch oven. Using the garlic press, crush the cloves of garlic and mix them in with the meat.
Then, immediately begin adding the water and the chicken base into the Dutch oven. Only add one cup of water and one teaspoon of chicken base at a time. Mix them in with the meat and repeat the process until the prepared ingredients are gone.
Bring the burner to a boiling temperature, place the lid on top of the pot, and begin cutting the red potatoes into small pieces. It is okay if some pieces are larger than others. Try to have the potatoes cut and ready before the soup begins to boil.
Once the soup is boiling, add the potatoes to the soup. You may turn down the burner temperature to medium by this point.
Rinse and cut the kale into smaller pieces. These do not need to be extremely small pieces. Cutting them simply helps you later get a spoonful of every ingredient. Once cut, put them into the pot.
Once the kale is soft, mash the potatoes a little bit by using the ladle. You do not need to mash them too much.
Finally, add the heavy whipping cream, stir, put the lid back on the pot, and then let the soup sit at low heat for at least twenty minutes.
Ladle the soup into a bowl and enjoy! If you have bread, dip it into the soup as well.
Storing:
After eating, if there is still some soup left in the pot, let the pot come to a complete cool before placing it into a fridge with the lid on. Enjoy the soup for up to a whole week! A bowl of soup with a spoon
“I’ll listen to just about anything, except country music.” This isn’t an uncommon phrase to hear online, or maybe in person, when music discourse is the topic at hand. I’ve seen this sentiment present in places such as TikTok comment sections, reddit postings, or just people answering the question of “What music do you listen to?” in conversation. Perhaps this is just because I tend to be present in more alternative online spaces, or the fact that I moved away from Texas at the young age of 3. The radio here in the pacific northwest is vastly different to the one in Texas, so it would make sense that people who’ve lived here all their lives don’t typically listen to country music. In Texas, you get into a hot, stuffy car, burn your hand on the metal of the seat belt trying to buckle in, and the radio flicks on with the sputtering to life of the engine. The music starts, Kenny Chesney, but then you may change the channel, Carrie Underwood. The process may repeat itself until you find a song you like, or realize that most stations play country and switch to an AUX cord or bluetooth. But I can’t say that lack of experience is the only reason some folks seem to carry a strong dislike of country music. To hate something you must first know it.
I decided to investigate some reasons as to why country music has such a negative perception in popular culture. A Reddit post by a deleted user in the subreddit r/country asks “Why do people hate country music so much?” Many of the responses are in the same vein of unhelpful and spiteful, as expected from reddit.
Entheotheosis10: Because it’s awful.
ApprehensiveGrand209: Because it’s annoying as shit most of it blows
Stack_house21: Cause it fucking sucks and so do people that like it
[deleted]: It's suicide garbage ass music. If music at all
Obviously not much can be gleaned from these responses, so I had to dig around and read some with more substance. User Desprate_Audience96 details their gripes with the genre being “every country artist sounds like they're whining and complaining when they're singing and its annoying.”, adding that “all their songs are about the same shit - small town living, whisky, beer, and some girl in cowboy boots.” It seems those who actually answer the prompt of the post seem to agree. Most comments include something about repetitive themes, the proliferation of alcoholism, and, of course, the conservative culture heavily present within the genre and the areas where it’s most popular. The user FatsP writes something that sums it all up beautifully, “Some people associate country music with a culture they dislike. I'm sure everyone has their own conception, but think rural, white, redneck, conservative, fundamentalist Christan, xenophobic, etc. / Same reason people hate hip hop. Same reason people used to hate rock & roll when it was more associated with youth and rebellion. I like it all.” And it's very true. Country music is inherently tied with the culture that birthed it.
When asked to think of common themes in country music, it’s not hard to come up with the obvious, such as trucks, guns, America, women, god, and beer, just like these reddit posters and many other Americans might. That doesn’t mean these shallow representations of southern culture are all country has to offer. If you truly care to search, to listen, you’ll find a vast range of topics being sung to the sound of a guitar. People don’t realize that country music can be so much more than “redneck” racism and preaching hate-religion. In fact, one of the most prolific artists to come out of Texas (aside from maybe Beyonce), is good ole Willie Nelson. If you don’t know much about Willie Nelson, you may assume he’s just another bearded hillbilly from Texas, and that his music offers exactly what country haters agree it will. Willie Nelson, however, is a known Liberal activist.
Many of his songs reflect his politics, diving into topics usually untouched by surface level radio-popular country songs. One of his more recent releases “The Border” delves into what is currently a very hot political topic due to the presidential election. The song is told from the position of a border agent, but takes into account feelings from both sides of the divide. The speaker of the song sings, “From the shacks and the shanty's / Come the hungry and poor / Some to drown at the crosses / Some to suffer no more” (Willie Nelson). While some may want to argue that the song frames the border agent as the “right” or just party in the song, these lines show an obvious compassion and consideration shown to those simply trying to immigrate for a better life.
Though somewhat of a comedy, Willie Nelson even has a song collaborating with artist Orville Peck titled “Cowboys Are Frequently, Secretly Fond of Each Other”. Though the original song is a satire, poking fun at the way cowboy and leather culture overlap at parts, Willie Nelson's intention for the cover was to pull this comedic tune “out of the closet”(Willie Nelson). Nelson doesn’t intend the song to make fun of or put down gay people, but rather to point out some not so secret aspects existing in cowboy culture. It’s also just a very funny song. Continuing down the cowboy road but not the comedy one, another song Willie Nelson has sung, this time collaborating with artist Waylon Jennings, is “Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys”. This song delves into how isolating cowboy culture can sometimes be for those living it. It almost directly reminds me of the feelings of shame I so frequently tack onto my southern identity. Stereotypes of being hicks or poor are addressed in the song with the lines “Let 'em be doctors and lawyers and such / Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys” (Jennings and Nelson). This line is intended to point out how often occupations associated with the title “cowboy” like agriculture and ranching, are some of the lowest paid jobs and often lead to thankless hard work. They urge mothers to have their sons aim for higher paid jobs such as a lawyer or a doctor, knowing the future that awaits those who continue in the shoes of cowboys.
This doesn’t sound like the flagrant racism, Christian nationalism, and boring repetitive droll that we’ve been told all country music is, now does it? Willie Nelson is not the only country artist with insightful lyrics and agreeable politics, I promise you this, just a beautiful example. I wish it were common knowledge that it’s inherently incorrect and unfair to boil down any music genre to the few popular examples you’ve heard or been told about. Jazz can be slow; a smoky bar, a single pianist playing a peeling old upright, the bassist laying down a loping beat, soft lyrics raspily sung into an old stand mic. Jazz can be fast; golden brass instruments reflecting stage lights back to the crowd, ladies’ heels stamp the dancefloor as they trot and spin, the fast snare of a drum, a saxophone solo so deft and quick it blows minds. The same can be said for classical, rap, rock, pop, and almost any genre you can think of. That's the point. They’re genres. So is it fair to paint all country music with the same brush based on the culture it’s popularly associated with?
When I was 12, I might’ve agreed with the general consensus against country music. When I was 14 too. Still when I was 16. And honestly? I agree with some of the points they make now. I’ve just spent all this time defending the genre, but I want it to be perfectly clear that this does not mean I ignore its shortcomings. Country music can be racist. It can preach unhealthy christian sentiments, it can glorify alcoholism, and it absolutely can be made by people who are only putting hate in the world. The big point I’m trying to make is that it isn’t all like that. But when the negativity is what gets blasted the loudest, a lot of us can’t be bothered to listen closely for the positivity. So yeah, I used to think country music was all rednecks and white guys talking about their tractors and beer drankin’. Until I didn’t.
As I matured deeper into teen years, I’d say my distaste waned. I saw artists like Dolly Parton and Johnny Cash and decided they were the exception to the rule. That maybe not all country music was bad, but that didn’t mean I was going to partake in listening to it. Then I watched the movie The Hunger Games: The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes. One big part of this novel based film was the music. I adored the music. The character Lucy Gray Baird plays some of the most boot-stompin' hand-clappin’ bluegrass I ever heard. I went straight home and listened to the soundtrack. I realized I’d get burnt out if I kept playing the same few songs over and over again, so I searched for something similar to make a playlist out of. On reddit (yeah I hate that reddit is such a heavy theme in this essay but it’s like the easiest way to scope out general public opinion so bear with me) I searched for some bluegrass artists who were, well, not racist. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for separating the art from the artist, but when delving into this new genre, a subset of country, I wanted to try and avoid some of the reasons I’d hated country music most of my life. One of the most mentioned artists was Billy Strings, who just so happened to feature on the song “Cabin Song” in the The Hunger Games: The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes original soundtrack. So I gave him a listen.
Billy Strings opened a whole new world to me. The plucky upbeat instrumental, the quippy lyrics, his unique vocal timbre, I was in love with all of it. It was so much more than I thought a subgenre of country ever had the capacity to be. After playing this new Frankensteined playlist of Billy Strings and the movie soundtrack for my mom, she commented “You know, have we ever made you watch Oh, Brother, Where Art Thou?? I bet you’d love the soundtrack.” To be honest, I still haven’t gotten around to watching the movie, but boy “I Am a Man of Constant Sorrow” was on my playlist fast as greased lightning. I went from there, finding new artists and songs I loved, discovering my favorite niches. I realized, this whole time, I’d been letting my preconceived notions and personal biases keep me from an entire genre of enjoyment. I, a musician, had been holding myself back from music. How silly is that?
To let stereotypes and surface level knowledge comprise our opinions and control our lives is to fall victim to ignorance. As I went through this revelation, that country music is in fact NOT all bad and horrible and evil and racist, I was reminded of a story my mother once told me. She told me how she started out majoring in radio and TV in college. For these classes, she had to do many things on film, such as making a small silent film with my dad as the star, or practicing the timing of a radio broadcast. When hearing her voice on film, she realized what she sounded like. She heard her accent, and thought it made her sound stupid. Such are the typical connotations that come with a southern accent; unintelligent, uneducated, poor, filthy. And so she changed it. She made herself talk in a more “accentless” accent. But the problem was never that she sounded stupid, as it was never that all country music is racist and bad. The problem is what people thought. For years, both my mother and I have let what people think color our experiences and our connection to our culture. I won’t be kept from all the knowledge and understanding country music has to offer me any longer. I want to let it be part of my culture, and enjoy it.
I still fondly remember going to Billy Bob’s Texas as a child, one of the few things about visiting my family I can still allow myself to enjoy. For those unfamiliar with the honky tonk, it’s a large complex of a building with about 30 bars, many different sized dance floors with stages for large music, an entire pool hall, and an indoor freaking rodeo. It’s like every stereotype you can imagine about Texas smushed into one big building. And boy was it fun. Being a kid, I never got to do much of the late night bar stuff with my family (for obvious reasons), but with your parents present, those under 18 are allowed entry. I would drag different members of my family onto the dance floor all night, forcing them to crouch down so we could two-step it or dancing on their toes. I quickly picked up the ability to learn a line dance by watching the floor for about 3 rounds and then hopping in as you keep a close eye on your neighbor’s feet. I was the only kid in my Kansas elementary school who had a personal pair of Ariat boots just for family visits. On the dance floor at Billy Bob’s, I wasn’t thinking about the complexities of right wing messaging and problematic artists in country music as I stomped and twirled and dipped. That’s what I’ve gained back. That freedom, to allow myself to listen without fear, and to find my place in culture and music, is what has returned as my opinion on country music has matured with my age. The next time I hear someone say “I like all genres but country music” I will challenge that notion. To find out if they really hate country music, or if they hate the labels it’s been given by those who won’t work to understand it.
Sources Cited
Detrow, S. (2024, June 2). On his 75th solo album, Willie Nelson confronts the politics of “The border.” NPR. https://www.npr.org/2024/06/02/nx-s1-4985073/on-his-75th-solo-album-wil…
Nelson, W. (n.d.-a). Willie Nelson – cowboys are frequently secretly fond of each other. Genius. https://genius.com/Willie-nelson-cowboys-are-frequently-secretly-fond-o…
Nelson, W. (n.d.-b). Willie Nelson – the border. Genius. https://genius.com/Willie-nelson-the-border-lyrics
Nelson, W., & Jennings, W. (n.d.). Waylon Jennings & Willie Nelson – Mammas don’t let your babies grow up to be Cowboys. Genius. https://genius.com/Waylon-jennings-and-willie-nelson-mammas-dont-let-yo…
R/country on reddit: Why do people hate country music so much?. Reddit. (n.d.). https://www.reddit.com/r/country/comments/klzzg5/why_do_people_hate_cou…
The world famous Billy Bob’s Texas Honky Tonk in ft. worth, TX. Billy Bob’s Texas. (2024, July 10). https://billybobstexas.com/about#:~:text=Billy%20Bob%27s%20Texas%20open….
History has long recalled the dinner table as the great unifier. The breaking of bread has resolved hundred-year wars, reconnected estranged families, and rekindled old romances. In my world, however, the dinner table represents isolation, hurt, and confusion. My youth was filled with muck boots splashing through large green pastures and riding the backs of trusty pony steeds.
A social outcast, my true friends were the animals I cared for. I giggled with the neighboring pigs, goats, and chickens in the yards, looking them in the eyes as we shared secrets.
As a child, I was naive about how my dinner plate was filled. Unaware that the bacon sizzling on the stovetop had been stolen from the ribs of my neighboring pig friend. Until I attended a local block party. The pig I once played alongside now held a different disposition. She was spit-roasted above a fiery pit, no longer the animal I had known but a carcass, prepared for forks, knives, and voracious cravings. Horrified, I rejected the traditional American ways and opted for a life of vegetables, seeds, and fruit. One I believed aligned with an ethos of non-violence. The way of the vegan.
Veganism quickly consumed me. Adhering to my new structure, I reformed every aspect of my life to become the perfect vegan. My all-or-nothing personality revved into high gear, and soon my fridge, closet, and bathroom reflected every minuscule detail of what I understood to be highly ethical living. In my world, I was satisfied. Continually sprinting down the path to moral perfection. Regardless of what onlookers believed, my ethics were all that mattered.
In social situations, meeting new people routinely followed the same pattern.
“This is my friend, Merissa,” I was introduced. “The vegan.”
Their eyebrows would raise. Followed by either a curious grin or the hasty wielding of an icy shield between me and my fresh opponent. I became an instant best friend or an abrupt enemy to new faces. Those who defined me as a foe scrutinized every detail, ranging from my lip gloss to my belt to my medication. They hunted me, sniffing me out for a weakness. So I, in turn, polished everything.
My dietary patterns superseded all else about me, and conversations skipped the small talk, diving directly into ethics, philosophy, and ego.
I loved this. I devoured it. It consumed me.
A heightened conversation, an ethical debate, or a self-righteous argument satiated me for years, even if it ended in a fierce disagreement or slammed doors. I understood the pain, the suffering, and the exploitation that the animals endured. My experiences paled in comparison.
But the dinner table. It caused me profound seclusion. At first, I refused to acknowledge this.
“What can I get you?” A server would ask.
“What are your vegan options?”
Their disposition would change instantly.
“Oh, uhh….I guess you can have a salad with no cheese or meat, that’ll be $20.”
My plate of undressed romaine lettuce wilted as my loved ones devoured my childhood companions at our shared dinner table.
The side-eyed discomfort from friends, family, and romantic partners gnawed at my spirit. It became clear that as my list of dietary restrictions grew longer, and my options thinner, my dinner invitations became fewer. “Oh, we’re eating at a steakhouse for my birthday, so I figured… you know… you’d prefer to opt-out.” The tables turned lonelier, and any open seat sat vacant.
I leaned more fiercely into my non-violent lifestyle. Veganism had become my everything, and it became all I was to anybody else. I, so deeply imprinted into its DNA, could not imagine life outside of its embrace. But the relationship intensified, and while my ethics gripped tightly, the world around me pushed. Hard. And as a result, I punched back. Harder.
I dated a man who initially adored my angst, my fire, and my passion. Our matching tattoos and alternative style offered the impression that I was a suitable partner. At first, he liked that I was vegan. “My best friend is also vegan, though when he gets drunk, he eats cheese pizza,” he chuckled, hoping I’d agree that I sometimes succumbed to the same desires.
“I’m not that kind of vegan,” I responded sharply, my pig tattoo freshly carved into my wrist. My curtness didn’t bother him then, but six months later, he confessed with a breath of pork buns that our morals no longer crossed paths. For him, I was simply too vegan to love.
My hands clawed even deeper into veganism, and I learned that the criticisms of old lovers and strangers alike were nothing compared to the criticisms I received from within the movement. Ideologies clashed, and insults hurled harshly among the activist community, each cruelty-free person convinced their way was the best way.
The most ethical way. The right way.
Just like the strangers searching for my flaws, my own people found fault in my actions with equal scrutiny. “You aren’t vegan. You’ve never been a real vegan,” one fellow activist scolded me after I admitted to wearing wool socks while hiking in the Arctic Circle. A nauseating confession that, to him, was akin to murder. I watched as the cruel commentary online and at the protest sidewalks continued to spread viciously, each remark laced with disdain and contempt.
I chose to distance myself, confirming my failure to meet ethical perfection. I spent more time with friends—not vegan ones, just those who loved me regardless of the material of my socks. I felt at ease. Happy.
Until one evening, I slumped by a campfire outside of a vacation rental filled with a few of my closest friends. It was my last weekend before moving out of state, none of us knew when we’d see each other next. Inside, my friends lusted after a rack of lamb ribs. The scent overtook the small house, thick and inescapable, seeping into the walls. I wrapped my animal-printed, tattooed arms in a blanket under the stars while they sank their teeth into the bones. My plate never found its place at the dinner table.
Recently, I moved to a city by the water to begin a new school. Maybe in an attempt to become someone different. I’m not quite sure if it feels like home or not. After class, I visited a smoothie shop with a new classmate friend. I began my usual inquiry about the ingredients of each item. Though now, I often refrain from using the trigger word. After we ordered, we sat at a table.
“I like that you’re clearly vegan, but you’re quiet about it,” She said.
Quiet. I’m not sure if I laughed or screamed out in my head.
“Quiet… yeah, I guess some vegans can be pretty loud about it, huh?”
