Swan Swan Hummingbird

and the time machine embrace

The other night, my husband and I went to a concert in Austin on a whim. Michael Shannon’s R.E.M. cover band. It was geared directly to an older Gen X crowd, with a few hip Boomers sprinkled in. Michael Shannon is two years younger than me, but still firmly in my generation, one that came of age to the soundtrack of Michael Stipe, Natalie Merchant, Robert Smith, and Morrissey. It was nice being in a room full of people my own age, but as soon as Bobcat Goldthwaite (the opener) came out and opened with an AARP joke, my mood dampened. How had this Boomer infiltrated my good time with his old man jokes? They continued on, one erectile dysfunction jab after another, and although he was funny(ish), nobody wanted to hear that shit. We were all there to relive our youth, not be reminded of being bald, fat, old, and not being able to get it up. Those are Boomer problems, not ours. Right?

See, I’ve been struggling to access hope, which seems like an entitled thing to say considering the current state of the world. Which it is. I am not living in Iran, North Korea, Gaza, Somalia, or any of the other places in this world that have far bigger problems than a Cheeto-faced narcissist. And as for first-world problems, I am not working a shitty job that I hate, struggling to make ends meet, sick, in debt, etc. But I do have eyes and ears and a heart. I don’t have to look too far from my own front door to see the sadness. The world is struggling and changing so fast that our puny little human minds are struggling to keep up. Technology is expanding in ways that is making humanity obsolete and, in the process, more stupid. I can’t help but wonder what the future will bring for my son, and the closer I get to the end, the more I want to rally and nest and find community in the smallest sense. Home. School. Cooking. Books. Art. Take eggs to the neighbors. Repeat. I can feel this in everyone I meet. Either you are fighting, raging, marching, or nesting hard.

The band was playing the entire 1986 album Lifes Rich Pageant, which is not banger-heavy. It contains lesser-known songs like Cuyahoga—a meditation on river pollution and the mistreatment of Native Americans—and, my personal favorite, Swan Swan H—about the American Civil War. So when Michael Shannon broke out in the hit Superman, all of us were ready to feel that.

The song was an anthem of sorts for many of us. A cover of a 1969 song by the Texas psychedelic band the Clique. The lyrics about romantic invincibility are universal.

I am, I am Superman

And I know what’s happening.

I am, I am Superman

And I can do anything.

In your fifties, this kind of optimism is hard to maintain, so when the first cords hit, hands (and phones) went up. There was a vain attempt in the audience to capture the magic of youth, but the enthusiasm felt dejected and short-lived. Michael Shannon was feeling it, but few others were. Least of all me.

When I saw The Psychedelic Furs in 2017, I was still in my 40s. There was no COVID. No President Trump. We had freaking Obama! My mother wasn’t dead yet. My child was old enough to be self-sufficient. The room was small and full, and the air was electric with nostalgia, and everyone felt it. The band felt it. When Love My Way came on, and Richard Butler leaned into the mic, everyone in that audience went insane. It was time travel. We were all collectively 16 again.

As Superman was wrapping up, I felt disappointed. Whatever spark I was hoping for never ignited. There would be no reliving anything. I was growing more and more annoyed with a group of drunk women behind us who were sloppy dancing and bumping into everyone. I was glancing back, making a joke to my husband, when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a short-haired, platinum-blond woman with large blue glasses, laughing and leaning into another woman. I turned back to watch the band, then did a double-take and turned to look at her straight on. It only took me a second or two before I walked straight up to her and said, “Are you Ashley?”

She answered yes, and for a second looked confused, and then a flash of recognition. “BURGIN!”

Then a hug. A hug so good, so strong, so real. One that reached back a lifetime and filled my heart with something it hasn’t felt in a long, long time. Pure joy. I kept hugging her, reaching my hands into a well and drinking again and again as if I was dying of thirst and hadn’t known it.

This girl… I call her that because we were girls together. I’d known her since the first grade. We spent eight school years together in a small-town classroom with only 7 or 8 girls, fluctuating only when a random new kid slid in or out. So these girls, we more than grew up together. We were as close as you can get without being sisters. I had not seen her since I was 16, the last time being at the funeral of a mutual friend. Her mother was friends with my mom and good friends with my aunt before they both passed. We both had divorced parents and similar situations with our fathers. We were both different in a town where different wasn’t always the best thing. We’d never been best friends back then, but back then, it didn’t matter. It was the kids you knew, however close, who made you.

“Why are you here?” we cried in unison. We grew up together in South Carolina. She lives in Atlanta. I’m in San Antonio. She was on a girls’ weekend with friends from college. She’d never been to Texas. She never liked R.E.M. Totally random.

I’ve kept up with her on Facebook over the years. Watched her marry her beautiful wife in photos. Adopt dogs. Become a super successful real estate agent. She’s one of those women who has a full life—a glowing energy, a bright spirit. Not even the 2-dimensional nature of an app could stop that shining through. I got her cell phone number a good ten years back when one of the original seven died by suicide, and the rest of us connected to remember. However, she wasn’t someone I realized I missed until I held her.

I must have hugged her ten times, not wanting to let go. And I wasn’t 53. Or 40. Or 16. I was eight years old. I was the little girl standing under the jungle gym, watching her do pull-ups in awe. I was the little girl who always looked up to her because she was athletic and self-confident and a born leader, all the things I didn’t think I was.

In that hug was the recognition of a lifetime past. Of shared memories and pain. Of who we once were, and who we’d become.

The concert didn’t matter anymore. That hug was better than Night Swimming, Losing My Religion, and Driver 8, all rolled into one.

We didn’t talk long. It was loud. She was with her friends. I was with my husband. It wasn’t the moment to catch up. We took a selfie, and I made a pact with myself to reach out the next time I was on the East Coast.

The rest of the show all I could think was how great I felt—like a warm cat had crawled into my chest, curled up, and started purring.

Later, on the way home, Ashley texted me. “Amazing. I wish we could tell our moms.”

I started tearing up, and she texted again.

“That’s all I could think when you left. Like, goddamn it would be amazing to tell them this.”

And there it was.

The thing we shared between us more than anything was the thing we’d both lost. The thing that no amount of music or memories could bring back—no matter how many nostalgia acts you get drunk and dance to.