A decade back, after a stormy ride into Philly, I found myself in a long line of First Aid Kit fans waiting to gain admittance to the cement slab of a concert venue known as the Union Transfer. An employee exited the doors and began checking IDs, with those over 21 rewarded with a wristband that meant we could order alcoholic beverages. He was diligent at the task, too, studying each person’s face before eyeing the proffered driver’s license. He took one look at me, however, and waved off the need for verification.
Inside, as is my wont, I made my way close to the stage—and realized, as I scoped those around me, that I was the oldest person in the room. There were a few 30-somethings in my vicinity along with parents with their teen and preteen kids, but no one who—beyond me— looked to be within spitting distance of 50. Most appeared to be college-aged. One young woman warned me that the band might be loud!
It’s not the first nor last time I felt out of place, mind you. As I’ve noted in another “daily prompt” post, I had a speech impediment as a kid that often left me feeling like an outsider, a feeling that only increased after we returned to the States and I started 5th grade. I was the new kid in class who talked funny and, on top of that, knew next-to-nothing of American culture. (Small surprise that I was “sick” some 30 days that school year.) Then, in middle school, I found myself placed in the “A1” track with “gifted” kids—aka the brightest of the bright. I wasn’t considered as such, however; as a result, every so often I’d be excused from a class and sent to the library. My classmates would watch me leave, some with smirks on their faces, then receive a specialized “gifted” lesson of some kind.
But back to that First Aid Kit concert: As I wrote at the time, they sang their songs, sang them loud, sang them strong, and had many of us singing along. The thing about music, especially in a live setting, is it brings people of different backgrounds and life experiences together as one. You may, as I did at evening’s start, feel out of place, but by night’s end—especially when everyone is singing “Emmylou”—realize you’re a part of something bigger than just you.
The Old Grey Cat 