DIY or Die: An Up Close Look at Our Lady of Perpetual Hope

As a giant dork, one of the first things I did when I committed to Hofstra was check out every club I could on the Internet. One that captured my interest more than others was Nonsense Humor magazine. The articles I read on the website were that perfect brand of surrealist humor  found in my favorite satire news sites, like Clickhole and The Onion. And it was genuinely funny and inoffensive, a rarity among college humor organizations. I resolved to definitely attend a meeting once I was settled on campus.

Fast forward to the first meeting at precisely 9:23 in a classroom in the basement of one of the campus housing complexes. It was packed, and I was so intimidated. None of the articles I had found had made me particularly uncomfortable, but that might not hold true of the crowd present at the meeting. Given the sheer number of people, it was more than likely that at least some of them had bigoted senses of humor. This was proven true when I heard people around me making jokes about pronouns and triggers, at which I rolled my eyes and mumbled sarcastically under my breath. But all was redeemed when the editors-in-chief asked people to introduce themselves with their name, their pronouns, and their favorite non-pornographic thing to masturbate to. Asking for pronouns at all is a great first step, and I was elated when a few of the editors themselves stated that they used they/them pronouns. There was, of course, the occasional joke at trans people’s expense, but for the most part, the crowd was extremely respectful. My social anxiety began to dissipate and what’s more, I began to feel a sense of comfort and safety. This, I felt, was a space in which it was okay to be myself.

Afterwards, the editors invited everyone back to their house to hang out. It was a short walk away from campus, probably closer to the academic side of campus than my dorm was, and definitely close enough to campus so that the Snapchat geofilter for the school still applied. I stepped into the garage, with its pink and blue lighting and the cardboard cutout of Harry Styles and the twinkle lights and the zines and the giant Nonsense Humor banner, and I knew that from then on, my college experience would be changed. I was right. I’ve met or become closer to some of my best friends at college at that house. I’ve attended shows there and watched my friends pour their hearts out at the weekly open mic there and I’ve screamed along to Green Day in the living room in a cathartic expression of post-election fears and frustrations. I’ve been inspired by my friends to create, and I’ve even felt safe and confident enough to share that creative work in that space as well. As a teenager, I always dreamed of finding a space and a community like that of Our Lady. I couldn’t be more glad that I found it.


Here’s a look at the weekly open mic:


Not only do they host weekly open mics, but they host concerts in their garage monthly, sometimes even multiple times a month.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

*All photos credit to M. Cicchetti Photography


The space, however, is more than just a place to perform. For some, such as regular Monika Lowe, Our Lady is more about community.

 

Music and Politics

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

*All pictures retrieved from Creative Commons.

As the old adage goes, art imitates life. Music is no exception. It often reflects the politics of the era in which it is made, or the politics and personal experiences of those who make the music. Nearly everyone is familiar with the national anthem, The Star Spangled Banner. So moved was Francis Scott Key by the sight of the American flag flying triumphantly over Fort Covington that he was inspired to write a poem that instills that same sense of patriotism centuries later. Of course though, some of the most controversial music is based not on authority, but on dissent. From folk to punk to hip hop to country, dissent is a theme that runs deep through musical genres. Sometimes, we don’t even realize it. “This Land Is Your Land,” a popular song even today especially in primary education, was written by folk artist Woody Guthrie, who associated with multiple communist groups and frequently performed with a guitar that had the phrase “This machine kills fascists” painted on it. However, other artists make sure their political messages are heard loud and clear. Take, for example, the Dead Kennedys, a punk band. One of their most famous songs is titled “Nazi Punks F— Off,” a scathing condemnation of racism and white supremacy in the punk scene. Even pop music can contain revolutionary messages, such as Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way,” which arguably paved at least some of the way for increased cultural acceptance of the LGBT community in the 2010s. With today’s tense political climate, there has already been an abundance of great music that has arisen, such as “FDT” or “F Donald Trump” by YG. And that song was written before Donald Trump was even elected. It can be argued that Donald Trump is one of the most divisive president-elects this nation has ever seen. One needs only to check Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr, or any other social media site to see anti-Trump tweet compilations, or articles about the faultiness of Trump’s policies, or footage of protestors blocking off major city streets. Given the backlash that has taken place before he has ever even entered office, it is reasonable to assume that musicians will certainly have much to convey over the next four years, especially given that many musicians align themselves with more left of center politics.    Regardless of your political views, it is undeniable that the Trump era is bound to produce some interesting artistic expressions.

Listen to the podcast version of this post here.

The power of punk

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

The best day of my life occurred on Friday the 13th.

That was the day I saw my favorite band, The Front Bottoms, in concert.

The Front Bottoms have never been just a band to me. Amongst other things, the band is a time capsule, each song bookmarking a certain chapter of my life. For me, their music encapsulates the worst year of my life: the year that the girl who made me realize that I was a lesbian left me after two years together, the year my grandmother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, the year that we had to bury her. It was also the year I fell into the most severe depression I’d ever experienced.

When I listen to their song “Maps,” I am transported back to a tiny bedroom with bright blue walls in my grandparents’ townhome, playing that song on guitar while my mother tended to her mother in the next room.

“There is a map in my room, on the wall of my room, and I’ve got big, big plans,” I would sing, not even knowing my plans for the next day, let alone the future. Yet I held on, waiting for the day when I would truly believe the words I was singing, when I would be able to make big, big plans instead of being preoccupied with the present.

When I listen to “Lipstick Covered Magnet,” I remember nights spent huddled in the darkness of my bedroom, feeling nothing where my chest and stomach should be.

“I’m scared I’m gonna die as lonely as I feel right now,” I would repeat over and over, feeling abandoned and betrayed by the friends I thought I had. A depressing mantra, perhaps, but one that brought me comfort. It let me know, in the words of the band, that everything I felt was common, even though I had never felt so alone. People might leave, but music was always there for me.

Listening to “Twin Size Mattress” brings back similar memories, but where “Magnet” was an anthem of sympathy, “Twin Size” was one of salvation.

When I saw the song performed live, the lead singer screamed my favorite lyric with desperation, as if he knew that it was a pivotal moment for me.

“I will help you swim, I’m gonna help you swim!”

I started to cry, but not with the same tears I had cried alone in my room all those times before. For the first time in a long time, I was happy just to be alive.

The Front Bottoms have never been just a band to me. In that moment, they were the future itself, the future that had always been distant and unimaginable but had finally manifested. They were a time capsule, a three-minute therapy session, a life saver. Because of them, I know now that I am not going to die as lonely as I felt when I was 16. Because of them, I have big, big plans. I am no longer the painfully awkward freshman who was afraid to even hold hands with my girlfriend in public, who would spend brunches and lunches crying under a secluded tree at the back of campus because upon coming out, all of my friends had left me. Now, I am fully engaged in my passions– I’m an editor on the school paper, I have a lead in the upcoming school play, and I’m president of the Gay Straight Alliance, where I mentor kids who are the very image of who I used to be. I know now that I want to be a writer, to give a voice to those who do not have one, to show that words can change lives, just as they changed mine.

Because of them, I am afloat.


*Image credits to Shea Stadium, Youtube, The Key, and Monkeygoose Magazine