‘G Note’ – by Thabani Tshuma

It is 2006.
My only ambition is to own a PS3.
I am terrified of growing up.
Pluto is apparently not a planet anymore.
small things have a way of being forgotten
or reclassified.

I have never owned a vinyl but,
CDs are the vinyl of the time.
My sister says “You gotta listen to this”
She’s older so, allegedly, her taste is better.
From a place of grace, or power, or the need to educate,
She lends me her boombox (we called them radios)
and MCR’s The Black Parade album.

Cue that G note.

Cue spine tingle, halted breath,
mouth as a gaping vacuum,
rapid-fire blinking,

I just might cry.

I am not yet a punk rock fan.
Think, "I have just become a punk rock fan.”
Think, “Life was incomplete before this band”
I do not say Stan yet, but in hindsight – Stan that!
And understand the power of an instrumental procession,
the howl of raging vocals,
the divine ecstasy of anthems.

It is 2008.
Death decides it is time we get acquainted.
Arrives uninvited.
Lingers under their new name, grief.
I play Welcome to the Black Parade on repeat.
I cry.
I cry.
I cry.
I stop crying.
The song keeps playing.

It is 2012.

I search for a fitting subculture.
Learn how to ricochet between identities.
Unnoticed due to constant motion.
In the pause,
question belonging.
My hair, too nappy for a fringe.
My father’s refrain:
“No son of mine will ever wear eyeliner”
But,
My skin keeps me dressed in all black.
And what could be more Emo than that?

It is 2018.
What a band they were!
The disbanded architects of our memories.
We talk about how some songs are timeless.
I gratuitously use the word “eclectic” to describe my taste.
What I mean to say is:
I am afraid,
and chaotic, and soulful, rhythmic, psychedelic, enchanted, enchanting, guffawing, a
teenage-adult, at odds with living
and so very much alive.

Today.
She tells me, “It is a funeral song.”
Agrees it is the sound of intravenous emotion.
The tones linger in our marrow.
We have always been dying.
What a glorious thing it is
to carry on.