…“A lot of the students were surprised at how mathematically easy it
was to generate new maps that looked less contorted than the status quo.
That revelation, however, left them with an uneasy feeling about how
government operates.
When asked how this project shaped the way they view politics, at least three used the word “corrupt.”
“I knew the government was corrupt, but I didn’t know it was this corrupt,” said Jake Richards with a chuckle.”…
it’s december. every one is bundled up in coats and scarves. it is 93 degrees.
it rains. the dead patch of earth that is the state suddenly blooms. plants test their boundaries, creeping across miles of cement for a chance at water. cars wreck by the multitude. school districts start murmuring about closing for inclement weather. it’s been weeks. no one has left their house in fear the rain may start again.
you can feel the air sticking to your skin. something in it is pulling at you. when you step outside, your vision clouds, presumably because of the steam on your eyewear. you reach up to clean the lenses before remembering you don’t wear glasses. you still can’t see.
it’s wednesday. the tornado sirens start. dogs howl in unison. wind screams along. you, too, wail with the sirens. they never stop. it’s wednesday.
you own a pair of cowboy boots. they fit perfectly. they’ve fit perfectly since you were 12. you don’t remember buying them.
you get stuck behind a railroad crossing and wait for the train to pass. you count the train cars to pass the time. you’re at 538. you’ve started over repeatedly. they’re still coming.
the sidewalk is hot enough to fry an egg. you know, because you watched your neighbor sizzle and crisp on it.
there is a barbecue place down the street. family owned, they say. best damn brisket in the state, they say. shame about all those missing people, they say.
the clerk at walmart smiles at you. her nametag has no name. you grab your groceries. her eyes are watering. she is still smiling. she forces “have a good day, y’all.” through her teeth. her smile is no smaller. tears are streaming down her face.
you fall asleep to the hum of air conditioners. you wake up to the hum of air conditioners. by the middle of july, you realize the hum has become a roar.
you’re on the highway. you’re not sure which one, you just know you’re headed out of state. lubbock is 100 miles away. out of the corner of your eye, you see an obsolete oil derrick surrounded by cows. the cows stare at you. you take your eyes off the road to stare back. you stare at them for what feels like ages, but when you look back at the road, lubbock is still 100 miles away.
the forecast for one afternoon is 100% sunny, with 100% chance of severe thunderstorms, with a 100% chance of both hail and tornadoes. you watch all of these things occur simultaneously.
it’s pecan season. the tree in your yard is laden with nuts. there is a crowd gathered round, holding plastic bags and odd contraptions meant to pick them from the ground after they fall at maximum efficiency. very quickly, your tree is bare, and yet the crowd is still there, scouring the ground. when it’s clear all the pecans are gone, the mob regroups around your tree, waiting for the next spring and the next bud.
I was 11 in June 2004 when My Chemical Romance released their second studio album and mammoth major label debut, Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge. Music in general was just beginning to be important to me, and MTV was still playing music videos after school. Good times.
I loved mainstream alternative music in the early and mid-2000s. Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! At The Disco, The Used, and Good Charlotte were just a few of the bands that were taking over my living room television while I sat on the couch and tried to focus on my math homework. Math slowly became less important – memorizing the lyrics in my CD booklets was infinitely more interesting. My mom was concerned.
At school, I was given rude sneers and a plethora of groans whenever I brought up these bands. And it broke my heart. I loved the music, and listening to it opened up a completely new world for me. I didn’t understand the bad rep it had. To me, it was everything I was looking for in a genre: the aggression, the theatrics, and the explosive personalities of the people behind the music. I thought it was fascinating.
Whether it was because of the sound of the music itself, or because so many young women loved these bands, it was unclear to me why many music fans (particularly men with very intense opinions on music) thought that bands like My Chemical Romance and Fall Out Boy were ruining the music world.
I became embarrassed of all of the bands I loved, simply because everyone around me was under the impression that these groups were lame. It turned into a ruthless and irrational hatred of anything associated with the things I secretly enjoyed. When I wasn’t hiding in my room listening to the mysterious emo / post-hardcore / alternative albums I loved so much, I was cool with letting everyone know that I also liked punk rock. Because apparently being a “punk” is cool. Whatever. My internal, musical struggle would follow me into my early 20’s.
Don’t get me wrong – I actively enjoy punk music and I often site Leftover Crack as just part of the bread and butter of my musical taste. I spent several years in college and post-grad attending punk shows in Philadelphia dive bars, and entirely avoiding the topic of 2000s emo. It was fine, but I bit my tongue as the punks around me (who I considered my friends and colleagues) poked fun at all the bands I adored in middle school and early high school. Why couldn’t I like both things? Why did I have to choose?
I associated the music I listened to with where I stood amongst all the other music fans. I was a poser and I was scared. That stupid, petty, childish fear. How it can be so trivial, yet entirely earth-shattering.
One night, standing outside of Connie’s Ric Rac, I came to the realization that I wasn’t cool. I wasn’t going to be cool, and I shouldn’t have to care about being cool. That punk was no more cool, nor more “deep” or “emotional” than emo and that frankly, both genres can be pretty fucking embarrassing and cringe-worthy at the end of the day. Whatever. Nerds exist everywhere, even when they’re hosting punk shows that bar kids from entering without the satisfactory amount of studs on their jacket (you can’t make this shit up). I digress.
These bands I spent so long listening to in secret, who were eventually grouped into the genre of “mall emo” and consequently shoved to the wayside as being “whiney rock music for girls” were the reason why I decided to pursue a career in music journalism, despite what my early portfolio tells people (punk this, hardcore that – still love it, but it’s not where my heart lives.)
Reading the stories in the pages of Alternative Press and Kerrang! inspired me to write my own pieces about how I felt about this genre that received so much backlash and intense scrutiny. I have “mall emo” to thank for my career as it stands today. Whether this article will change that or not is up for debate (ask a punk who probably tried to kiss my ass for an album review and called my writing “brilliant” until they found out that I like MCR – oh, the irony).
On another note, almost as quickly as the bands blew up, they sank to the ever common stereotype of “music for girls,” which was (and still is) dumb as hell, but still an “argument” I’ve encountered numerous times in my short life. I’d like to quote journalist Maria Sherman in her think piece about this subject while I’m at it:
“Another reason that they were dismissed, and one that is probably an even bigger motivating factor: They were good-looking, funny dudes with an ear for pop melody. And because they were good-looking, funny dudes with an ear for pop melody, their fan bases were primarily young women. And once young women like something, it’s no longer considered cool by older male rock critics.”
Can we just let people like things? Without it being a pissing contest about punk politics, the shame of being labeled a “fan girl” or the fear of being ousted as a poser? I’m tired, you’re tired. We’re all fucking tired. Call it what you want: “mall emo” or some freak cousin of post-hardcore, it’s still relevant to the tens of thousands of people who go out of their way to see The Used play a show – what are you doing?
