I Can Bend And Not Break

“What came first, the music or the misery?” — High Fidelity

The first time I heard the word “resilient,” I was listening to Dashboard Confessional’s “Bend and Not Break”. As Chris Carrabba sang, “I recover quickly, I’ll convince you soon that I am fine,” it seemed to explain exactly why I listened to emo in the first place.

As a suburban preteen in Boca Raton, Florida, the birthplace of Dashboard and all sorts of scene kids, emo was what convinced me I would soon be fine — it’s what showed me that someone, somewhere, had been through everything I was feeling.

At Dashboard shows, as the entire crowd sang along like we were sitting around a campfire (instead of smushed up against each other in an outdoor venue in 100+ degree heat and black band tees from the merch booth), I realized that as long as this music existed the world wasn’t as isolating as it appeared to be.

Even now, the old middle school scene kids are all grown up, but still searching for that sense of belonging that only the most misty eye-inducing lyrics can bring — a recent emo night in Williamsburg was so sold out that a line formed outside, the standees lamenting that all they wanted to do was listen to Taking Back Sunday, and when Jesse Lacey took the stage at a Brand New show, it was like everyone was experiencing their first heartbreak all over again.

In the early aughts, standing there in Vans and too-tight jeans, I sang along to lyrics about using fake IDs before I was even thinking about drinking, and screamed along to heartbreak anthems when I didn’t fully understand what a “lover’s tryst” entailed (although I felt sure I did at the time).

I played Dashboard songs about the Boca beaches when I first learned to drive, windows down on A1A, feeling like I was finally as grown up as I could be.

Later, it was what I put on lying in bed, crying over heartbreaks that felt far more intense than any middle school memories.

It was the soundtrack to every life event, playing along in the background, long after leaving Boca’s beaches.

In Boca Raton, Chris Carrabba was leading singalongs for out-of-place suburban youths, like the camp counselor he used to be. Nearby, in Coral Springs, New Found Glory was singing about everyone’s favorite middle school required reading, teaching kids across America that nothing gold can stay. Over in Jacksonville, Yellowcard was talking about being 23, which seemed decidedly ancient to me. Despite the beautiful beaches and the eternal summertime, teens in Florida weren’t as happy as they seemed.

In a state made up of Barbie dream houses IRL and gated subdivisions (to keep out the riff raff), it’s unsurprising that everyone was looking for something with a little more meaning.

In middle school, and later high school, I felt decidedly different. It was only once I started going to shows at dirty dive bars that I probably shouldn’t have been let into that I felt like finally, I was truly cool. I had always known it, deep down, of course, but with the braces and the glasses, I worried that my peers just didn’t understand. After all, everyone else in suburban south Florida was far more focused in seeing the latest installment of “Fast and the Furious” at our ridiculously chichi new theater, or roaming the mall aimlessly, with the intention of winding up at TGIFriday’s (because it was far more elegant than the food court).

I remember driving home from my first show (and by driving, I mean that my father picked up my friend and me in an embarrassingly obvious way that basically screamed that we were very much underage). As we passed said movie theater, I felt like everything was going to be okay — I had found a place, away from my peers, that embraced me. No matter how hard the week would be, a weekend called for another wristband, another show at the skate park, another chance to recover from the drama that constantly faced high school me.

Way back in 2002 (#tbt), “the scene” was everything if you were an out-of-place suburban tween just looking for somewhere to fit in.

Now, whenever I mention one of my favorite emo bands, people always snicker and say, “Oh, I loved them… in middle school.”

Their mocking aside, I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever fall in love with a band the way I used to. I’d sit in my room, stare at the liner notes, and listen to every single song on the CD. No texting, no distractions, no Spotify ads for nu-metal… just listening.

I still get excited about new bands, but they don’t give me dirty daydreams like when I first listened to the All American Rejects, and I don’t feel like someone’s seeing my soul’s intricate inner-workings, like when I listened to “Deja Entendu”. I no longer want to listen to music that sounds like a breakup, but I don’t get the same gut-wrenching goosebumps when I hear a new band like I did a decade ago.

In “Nothing Feels Good: Punk Rock, Teenagers, and Emo”, Andy Greenwald describes Dashboard’s music as “messy and unpleasant, and if you’re not feeling that way too, there’s little point in trying to listen to it. If you are, though, the song can be more therapeutic than a million hugs or well-intentioned advice.” Oddly enough, when you’re an emo tweenager, Hot Topic studded belt around your waist, a twentysomething man screaming your every feel is far more acceptable than a million parental unit hugs.

Now, a decade later, songs like “Screaming Infidelities” still make me feel some type of way (mostly nostalgic for my more idealistic days, where I felt sure I’d fall in love with someone who would write songs like that about me, minus the misogyny). I know I should be angry about how sexist the songs are, and understand how maudlin it all is, which I do, mentally — but instead I tear up and think about how no matter how many years go by, the lyrics still say everything I want to say. I understand how overwrought it all is, but that doesn’t make it any less real to me.