I believe in the radio

Because I attended Catholic school from kindergarten through high school (and continued at my Jesuit alma mater), I never rode a school bus. In fact, to Catholic school kids, school buses were a rare novelty reserved for occasional field trips and the football team. And, because most of my childhood took place in suburban Denver where there is little public transportation, my parents drove me to school every day.

Those school day car rides were always accompanied by the sound of the radio. When my dad drove, we listed to Paul Harvey. There was something so soothing about his voice, and at ten years old, I dreamed about being a radio newscaster. I loved early mornings and the romantic anonymity of radio stardom. Sure, I could recognize Harvey’s voice from anywhere, but I could never have picked him out in a crowd. Even as a kid, I knew that was the kind of fame I wanted – invisible admiration.

When Harvey died in 2009, we listened to his son for a bit, but radio was never the same. By that time, iPods were becoming more and more popular, and I started to develop my own music taste (mostly facilitated by iTunes gift cards and Taylor Swift CDs). My dad continued to listen to the radio. 

Around that time, another radio character caught my interest – Amelia Earhart, weather anchor for KUSA Denver. A pilot in her free time, Earhart believed she was a descendent of the feminist pilot of the 20th century. In 2011, Earhart flew her namesake’s transcontinental route across the US, and in 2014, completed the circumnavigation her predecessor tried to achieve in 1937. Mixed between these achievements was the discovery that Earhart did not, in fact, have any genetic connection to the 20th century pilot. Still, the story was sensational.

In the evenings or at times when we drove as a family, we would play a game called “Name that Tune,” flipping through the channels and trying to guess the songs as quickly as possible. Though killed by the advent of technology that performs the action of song identification, “Name that Tune” still happens during family drives – made fair by someone’s hand blocking the screen. No smartphones allowed. 

I lived less than ten minutes by car from my high school, so I largely stopped listening to the radio in the mornings. Once I started driving, I had control over the music for the first time. I programmed my six favorite stations into my mom’s green Subaru Outback. Toward the end of high school, I worked a few different jobs – teaching dance, tutoring, nannying – and I got used to flipping through the radio on my own.

Even as I transitioned from CDs to iTunes to Spotify, I never stopped listening to the radio in the car. In part, this is because I can never quite figure out the Bluetooth connection (my brother would kill me for this, but I usually forget about it, and then I am in a hurry to go wherever I am going, and I don’t have time to mess around with it). 

But also, there is a sense of destiny that accompanies the radio. It’s as if the universe conspired so that I would listen to this channel at this exact time playing this specific song. I discovered some of my favorite artists on the radio – listening to Taylor Swift’s “Love Story” on KOSI 101.1 and later finding my way into 93.3’s alternative music – with bands like Misterwives, Cage the Elephant, and Vinyl Theatre. 

When I moved to Los Angeles for college, I never listened to the radio. I started paying for Spotify, began the process of curating playlists, grew to love the experience of listening to vinyl. I rode in friend’s cars and countless Ubers, all with Bluetooth connection and a curated music experience. 

After moving home during the pandemic, I have been driving consistently for the first time since high school. I regret to say I have not attempted any sort of Bluetooth connection between my phone and the car, but I do enjoy the radio. Somehow, the alternative station that introduced me to new bands in high school still plays the same songs – they have not changed at all. Most of my other favorite stations are now inundated with songs pushed to the top 100 by Tik Tok. There is something annoyingly tender about the current state of the radio – outdated and yet timeless. 

Every once and a while though, the radio plays a song I desperately need to hear, and at a time when I need to hear it. 

Two years ago, I witnessed an overdose of a coworker. Thanks to LAFD and the EMTs who responded, the person survived, and it turned out to be an accident. I struggled to come to terms with the severity of the situation for a long time, and I felt isolated because I was bound by the confidentiality of my work setting. In the months after, I was so angry because the person who had overdosed seemed to be doing better than I was. On the recent two-year anniversary, I was feeling particularly glum. I stuck my key in the ignition and turned on my car to hear The Fray’s “How to Save a Life.”

The Fray was one of Denver’s standout bands, and I lived in Colorado during the peak of their career. “How to Save a Life” never really meant anything to me then, and I often mocked Isaac Slade’s crooning vocals. My precocious church-choir trained past self was horrified by his lack of enunciation. Hearing that song fifteen years later made me stop in my tracks. I finally understood what it might mean to save a life, and the cost both people pay in the aftermath. 

A few weeks earlier, I taught a ballet class at my high school dance studio as a last-minute substitute. This class was the first I had taught in-person in nearly seven months and my first time in a studio since March (masks and social distancing required). I was so nervous to teach the class after so many months dancing in my bedroom, but the dancers were so gracious. I have never been so grateful for a group of young people. 

More emotionally, this was my first in-person ballet class since losing my college ballet professor and mentor, John Todd. I am haunted and honored that I took his last live ballet class before quarantine and his last Zoom class before he passed away in early April. 

Besides ballet, John also taught musical theater – a class known for its tearful breakdowns and many more breakthroughs. In late February, we sang and danced to “You Learn” from Jagged Little Pill, the Broadway musical set to Alanis Morrissette’s 1995 album of the same name. That album holds a special place in my heart. My mom has always been a big supporter of Murphy’s Law and the song “Ironic.” I lived in Portland when we listened to that album, and I remember hearing “Ironic” on the radio and staring out the window while I scream-sang “It’s like rai-aiain on your wedding day!” I had so much angst at age five, it is no wonder I became an artist. My mom always emphasized that if you prepare for the worst, the worst will not happen (although I don’t think that applies much in 2020). 

I sang another song from Jagged Little Pill in January as a mock audition for John’s musical theater class, and I’d also bought tickets to see the musical in New York over spring break (cancelled due to the pandemic). All to say – Jagged Little Pill represents the intersection of angst, determination, irony, and loss for me.

As I was driving home after teaching ballet, I cried. On the one hand, I felt John with me as I taught and danced, channeling his energy into my own practice. On the other hand, standing in the role of teacher, rather than student, made his mentorship and guidance feel further away than ever. And, ballet in the age of darkened theaters, masks, and social distancing is a painful art form at best. To distract myself from my despair, I turned on the radio – to “You Learn” from Jagged Little Pill. Cue more tears.

Commuting to Catholic school all those years gave me faith in the radio and in a God that works in the most ordinary of ways. The randomness of the radio never fails to make me stop in my tracks and consider that perhaps life is not so random after all.