This. This Is Our Future

The first time I saw Jeremy perform they were wearing pistachio colored Capris with an elegant floral-patterned blouse, dangly earrings, messy hair. And before I had time to soak in their style or make assumptions about who they were… they were belting out Motley Crue’s Shout At The Devil. They stunned us all, I’m sure of this. I was caught up in this moment that was both surprising and electrifying! It brought tears to my eye. My heart swelled. THIS. This is our future! Confident. Self-aware. READY AF. Jeremy is just a few short weeks from graduating from high school and I am pretty sure they know who they are and where their place is in the world.

I recently had the privilege of watching them perform again, along with over 20 other young performers from the Portland Arts & Technology High School (PATHS) Music Program, at the St. Lawrence Arts Center. And in this charming, dark space, I also watched my son. Head down, his long hair covering his face. So very intentional. Generic blue surgical mask strapped across his face, Carharts. He’s playing bass for a cover of the Good Rat’s, Tasty. And in this moment, he’s the only kid in the room. MY kid. OUR kid. I am aware of his dad, seated in the next row. OUR Kid. The first-born. Born to us on Manhattan’s Lower East Side in a dramatic 3-push-moment on a Sunday at 6:01 pm on March 21, 2004. Curly bond hair. Barely cried out. The sun was setting.

I know he purposely sets himself back, just slightly out of the spotlight. My Kid. Our kid. And on this night, Tonight, the son rises. I am so damn proud of him.

In this darkened theatre, lowering my mask to sip boxed Merlot from a plastic cup — surrounded by the people who dot not just love our son, but love this entire generation — I watch these exuberant kids perform Bowie, Chili Peppers, Wonder, Metallica, Rage Against the Machine, Jackson 5 -and I catch my breath. Then I wallow in the tortured lyrics written and performed by students, two young girls. What.The.Fuck? How have they possibly captured the complexties of love, loss, and location, before they have finished high school? Impossible. But they have have nailed it and I relive the loneliness. What do they know. But they do know. And I can totally relate.

Their exuberance commands our attention… And they have it. I want to give them all a hug but that would be weird.

THIS! This is energy and joy, the beat and pulse of a generation emerging and bursting into the the next phase of their life. The Class of 2022. And. I. Can’t. Even. How did it happen so fast?

And there are others, already out there creating their own spotlight with the same force. One caught the 2:45 boat to catch her flight to begin a nearly 3 month solo journey navigating Europe. Another just curated and hung her first art show. She sourced the funding herself. A boy who once told me he wasn’t going to college tells me he’s off to Bennington in the fall, his grades never better. His update is one big smile. And his neighbor across the way, he’s going back to school to explore criminal justice. He’s been out of the classroom for 2 years. That’s brave. And my youngest, the non-joiner, stormed both the football field and the wrestling mat, receiving this nod in the winter sports recap, “Freshman Silas Wasklewicz (132 pounds) is a newcomer to watch.”, Portland Press Herald, December 2021.

Their potential is palpable.

So go out there, put on your pistachio capris, pair them with a pretty blouse if that suits you, and fucking Shout At The Devil. This generation demands it.

Special thank you to Victoria Stubbs, Music Instructor, Portland Arts & Technology High School, for her instruction and leadership to create these spaces & performance opportunities.

Eric Eaton for creating a casual learning experience and space for Atticus to learn bass and other life lessons he’s probably not even aware of yet.