Pausing to Consider — A Long Memory Experience
Immediately after the event, someone asked me what I thought. It gave me pause. There was a lot to unpack. I had thoughts related to what those involved in this iteration of the Long Memory Project experienced in their initial gathering. I had thoughts pertaining to the performances and exhibitions. And I had thoughts informed by different aspects of my own background, too. A bit of time and space led to this reflection.
Explaining Listener’s music is a futile exercise. It’s talk music, it’s rock and roll, and it’s spoken word. It’s an odd combo, and the band’s alright with that. They used to have a bumper sticker on the offer that said, “LISTENER. It’s For Anyone. But It’s Not for Everyone.” That’s one of the reasons why I love them. They know full well that they’ll get flak for their creative choices. The lyrics and their delivery aren’t going to speak to everyone. Not everyone will find the distortion and the noise they level pleasant. Yet they do it all the same. And for those whose hearts are shifted by their choices — it’s a deep and gratifying realignment, the best of what music offers.
That’s not entirely unrelated to last week’s Long Memory Project exhibition.
For those who might not be familiar with the endeavor, Crosshatch Center for Art and Ecology’s Long Memory Project offers a venue for elders to share stories and experiences related to the chosen theme with artists. Those artists then create works that embody those stories and ensure that they’re held within the collective memory of this region through time.
This last LMP was centered on the LGBTQ+ experience, and I made it to the showcase.
After the reception and viewing of the visual pieces was over, the panel of LGBTQ+ artists and elders finished speaking, the question-and-answer session had concluded, and the poetry, spoken word, and song were a memory, I sat.
I sat, and my mind wandered. I recalled another evening gathering where, amongst dusty couches and folding chairs, I had sat for an anti-civ talk with anti-civ folks. If that anti-civ language doesn’t make sense, the language of the talk wouldn’t have made sense either.
And if you’re reading this thinking, “What in the world is Taylor talking about?” that’s just fine. Sit with it, and read on — the threads will connect regardless of whatever in-group you might be in or out of.
Back to the dustier gathering. Those who did know the lingo, the references, the rhetoric and those ways of understanding the world found themselves amongst friends. Instant camaraderie, so long as you’re familiar with Ellul, Jerry Mander, what E.L.F. stands for, and what a Catholic Worker is. So, everyone in the room. Er, at least that was the assumption.
Some folks did, however, break that mold. Curious, yes. Sympathetic, sure. But, still, from a different world. I spoke with them after the talk spanning domestication, modernity, and Utah Phillips.
They shared confoundment that every question asked of the speaker afterward seemed to immediately jump to next steps. There were no rebuttals or requests for clarification — strange because it was a pretty pointed and heady talk. They found it odd that the presentation hadn’t addressed more fundamental questions about progress, technology, or the future. Over and over, assumptions were made in the room that weren’t ever acknowledged.
I heard what they said, and I saw its validity. Still, I countered that gearing the event towards those more fundamental questions and considerations would cheapen it for those who had gathered. There are events tailored to more introductory approaches. What made that particular evening hum, however, was knowing that you’re among kindred spirits, delving deep into something needed in this perplexing modern landscape. That very very rarely happens outside of get-togethers like that one. Being the odd one out is by far the more common experience. Shifting language and points of reference to be more beginner-friendly, so to speak, might make some more comfortable. It might allow some to feel better about the conversation. But it also would cheapen the gathering as a whole. It’d throw water on it, and the spark might disappear altogether.
Still sitting after the Long Memory event, I found myself on the other side of that exchange.
At some level, I was encountering something new to me. I had stepped into an evening centered on experiences unlike mine. I’ve never had to seriously consider the consequences of being honest about who or how I love, or of the clothes that I wear, or how I present or understand myself. And I had yet to learn what Affirmations in Ferndale was and hadn’t heard of the Quilt, among other things. Those references felt like invitations. Jot a quick note down, and it’s an opportunity to ask and learn later.
Other language, by no means anywhere close to the bulk of the event, but enough to stick with me, struck me as less inviting. The words felt more like gut-level blows.
I won’t detail my relationship to the church here. There’s a lot to it; it’s complicated, and this isn’t the forum to try and do it justice. But there is a relationship, and I owe a lot to the tradition I was raised in, the tradition I’m still steeped in. Here’s why that aside is relevant.
Parts of the Long Memory exhibition featured faith language wielded differently than it tends to be. I don’t mean offered from a new perspective or given shifted meaning or broader application. I mean verbiage turned around intentionally and aggressively. Again, I want to be clear that there was plenty in this same dialect that evening that was immediately encouraging. But around that, and I’m not sure I could even identify where the line would be, was language that was admittedly jarring — hard to hear and harder to appreciate.
So I might have squirmed a bit in my seat. You might have done the same as audience to the seemingly flippant and irreverent treatment of something in your blood, something you hold in your core. In that discomfort, I had to remember: The choice of that language comes from somewhere.
I don’t know for sure, but I imagine in this case, what I heard was the product of conversations, tensions, experiences, and accusations I’ve never had to deal with, consider, or attempt to move on from. Although I’m a stranger to what that feels like, my guess is that many folks in that room were not.
There aren’t many gatherings that speak to addressing the difficulty of LGBTQ+ experience relating to the church.
So effectively, that language might offer a unique sense of belonging, and of being known. It might carry a powerful welcome. It could offer an understanding that in the midst of a difficult world that tells you that you’re not enough — you are. And it might be able to do that because it’s flipping verbiage around that’s been used to say the opposite.
Hold on, though. I’m still tangled in the quandary. How can I say what I understand to be irreverent, aggressive, or profane is needed?
As I look at those words and consider the question, something comes into focus. That listing — irreverent, aggressive, and profane — is peculiar.
I’ve seen those complaints before regarding rooms hosting conversations relating to faith. At times, some of those rooms have felt like home. I’ve heard those words used to describe music I’ve found to speak to me most clearly. Those complaints have described some of the worlds in which I’ve felt most deeply moved, known, and seen.
So, it’s not that much of a stretch. I can acknowledge what didn’t sit well with me, and still put myself in someone else’s shoes. And as I do that, I begin to recognize something of myself there.
An LGBTQ+ elder on the panel shared briefly on the duality of their queer identity along with Catholic practice. A question came up afterwards that began with a quip of being a “recovering Catholic as well.” That immediately felt like a jab. The hint of the assumption that the two are wholly incompatible irked me. And that’s when I need reminding — that language wasn’t for me. It wasn’t intended to be. That language speaks to experience that I don’t know. But I can seek to understand where that language comes from.
That evening featured stories of repression, rejection, dismissal on the scale of decades, loss, and the names of LGBTQ+ folks no longer around. It also included accounts of commitment, celebration, belonging, legacy, bravery, and those of the elders without whom’s work that evening wouldn’t have been possible. It was deeply touching. The evening was for anyone. All were welcome. But it wasn’t for everyone.
What was shared wasn’t intended to strike the same chords within all people. And that’s alright. If some of the language used was a catalyst for dignity, care, belonging, and getting a bit over myself, I’m all for it. I won’t pretend it wasn’t unsettling. Sometimes it should be. Parsing language was far from the most important thing happening that evening.
