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You Are the Best Thing from Mia Borders on Vimeo.

#15WeekFridays - Week 15 “You Are the Best Thing” by Ray LaMontagne

Recorded, mixed, and mastered by Mia Borders at Blaxican Records in New Orleans, LA.

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“You Are the Best Thing” by Ray LaMontagne Written by Ray LaMontagne

It's a Man's, Man's, Man's World from Mia Borders on Vimeo.

#15WeekFridays - Week 14 “It’s a Man’s, Man’s, Man’s World” by James Brown

Recorded, mixed, and mastered by Mia Borders at Blaxican Records in New Orleans, LA.

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“It’s a Man’s, Man’s, Man’s World” by James Brown Written by James Brown & Betty Jean Newsome

Kissing My Love from Mia Borders on Vimeo.

#15WeekFridays - Week 13 “Kissing My Love” by Bill Withers

Recorded, mixed, and mastered by Mia Borders at Blaxican Records in New Orleans, LA.

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“Kissing My Love” by Bill Withers Written by Bill Withers

Kissing My Love from Mia Borders on Vimeo.

#15WeekFridays - Week 13 “Kissing My Love” by Bill Withers

Recorded, mixed, and mastered by Mia Borders at Blaxican Records in New Orleans, LA.

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“Kissing My Love” by Bill Withers Written by Bill Withers

Happy Together from Mia Borders on Vimeo.

#15WeekFridays - Week 7 “Happy Together” by The Turtles

Recorded, mixed, and mastered by Mia Borders at Blaxican Records in New Orleans, LA.

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"Paradis”

- Marc Broussard, 2013

When I got to boarding school in Connecticut, I was completely unaware just how special growing up in New Orleans is to an outsider. Every introductory conversation went the same:

“I’m from New Orleans. What about you?

“You’re from New Orleans! That’s insane! What’s Mardi Gras like? Are there lots of naked people everywhere?”

“My family comes over. We grill and walk around the corner to the parades.”

“Parades?! Is that where the naked people are?!”

“There aren’t any naked people. What are you talking about?”

Lather, rinse, and repeat. I couldn’t fully understand the uniqueness of my hometown because the only other places I’d ever spent time were El Paso and Juárez – neither of which were super cool in my opinion as a child. I didn’t realize that my boredom in these other cities was spurred by my spoiled upbringing in the greatest city in the world.

Now here I was in Watertown, Connecticut. If there’s a polar opposite of New Orleans, it’s Watertown. It was only here that I began to appreciate the beauty of New Orleans. On the surface, it’s the food (sorely missed during my time in the Northeast), the music, the parties. Beneath that, though, there’s much more to this city that outsiders just don’t understand. Things that we locals take for granted.

That first week in the dorm was hard. I missed my family, of course. I missed the tree outside my house. Every Mardi Gras to this day, the kids gather up the beads they don’t want to save and throw them into the Crepe Myrtle in front of my house. It’s beautiful. It’s also a huge pain in the ass when a heavy rain falls and drops them onto my car and the sidewalk and I find myself year-round constantly throwing them back into the tree, but it’s beautiful.

I missed the Crepe Myrtles. They’re everywhere in New Orleans. Ours is a deep fuchsia, but there are purple, red, and a pink so pale it almost looks white. Don’t get me wrong, Connecticut is beautiful – especially in the springtime – but it’s not New Orleans.

I missed the neutral grounds. Everywhere else, they’re called medians, but we do things differently down here. The green, landscaped stretch of land that separates our large streets and avenues is called the neutral ground. It’s where my family stands on Mardi Gras to watch the parade. We are a strictly neutral ground side family. Get out of here with that “sidewalk side” nonsense. Concrete or grass? No contest. I could explain the etymology of the term, but in all honesty, I had to Google it to refresh my memory. You can do the same. That’s another thing about New Orleans. There are lots of names for lots of things down here and most of us can’t tell you why.

I missed the streetcar. Not that I’ve ever ridden it more than five times in my life, but I missed it nonetheless. The sound of it rumbling down the street. The hum it makes as it flies down St. Charles Avenue, packed with tourists headed for the Quarter. The streetcar is part of the soundtrack of this city – the white noise like blood coursing through veins. I get especially nostalgic now because it helped me get home many a drunken night when I refused to call a cab. Not in the sane, legal way you’re thinking. No, no, no. In the horribly illegal way in which I lived my early twenties. (“Streetcar tracks stay on the left, Mia. You got this. 30 miles per hour.”). By the way, don’t call it a trolley. Just don’t.

I missed the humidity. This may seem like an insane thing to say, but I love the humidity here. There’s nothing like it anywhere else. Yes, it wreaks havoc on my hair and yes it makes me sweat even more than the unhealthy amount I already do (seriously, I have a problem). But, there was nothing sweeter than the first time I stepped off a plane from the Northeast and felt that hot, wet blanket of humidity swaddle me. I took a deep, soggy breath and I knew I was home.

I even missed Jazz Fest. When I was kid, I hated Jazz Fest. Yes, I see the irony because I’m about to play Jazz Fest for the eighth year in a row and I love it, but as a little kid? It was the worst thing I could possibly imagine. It was enormous and there was so much walking and it smelled like horseshit. It was so hot and there was no music I was interested in. I didn’t get in to New Orleans music until I was much older, so I didn’t appreciate the fact that I was seeing The Meters and The Neville Brothers and so many other musicians I would come to love and respect. “Is *NSYNC playing? No? Then, why the eff am I here?”

I graduated from high school in May 2005. The three months that followed were blissful. I was finally home and I could appreciate all that I had missed. I played tourist and rode the streetcar down to the Quarter, had a muffuletta from Central Grocery, and I haggled with a shop owner in the French Market over the price of a SPAM graphic tee. I was supposed to go to film school in Savannah that fall, but I deferred a year. It’s what all the cool kids from my high school were doing, but they were using their gap year to travel Europe and South America and I was going to be a bum.

Then, Katrina. Then I really missed New Orleans. Not knowing whether our house was still standing was the worst kind of hurt I’d known. There was something beautiful about that time, though. All of my friends and teachers from boarding school reached out to me through the new miracle of Facebook to see if my family was okay. Even people I didn’t really know who just knew me as “that girl from New Orleans who sings” checked in. They too were touched by this disaster because of their remote connection to me.

In my very roundabout way, I guess that’s what I love the most about New Orleans: the connections. This city was founded as a connecting point and it continues to bring people together from all walks of life, from every corner of the world. It’s a hub, a port, an epicenter. It’s a cross-cultural birthplace of food, music, and me.

#miaborders #memoir #creative nonfiction #good and bad catholics #non-fiction #neworleans #katrina

“Shine a Light”

- The Rolling Stones (1972)

I’ve put off this essay for years, but I don’t see the point in continuing to do so. I have three nieces now and with the current climate being what it is, the silence feels deafening.

I was sexually assaulted when I was eleven years old. It was in a place I felt safe by a man I was told I could trust. I can count on one hand the number of people who know this. I kept silent for a number of reasons:

1. I felt guilty. Something deep inside told me that this was my fault. We live in a culture of victim shaming/blaming and even at such a young age, those feelings were present in my mind. I’d done something to invite such behavior. I deserved it because I was a bad kid.

The first thing I did was pray. I asked God to forgive me for what happened – for whatever I did to merit the violation. The second thing I did was to bury it for over a decade.

2. I wasn’t raped. I felt for a long time that because I wasn’t raped and hadn’t been violated brutally, I should just keep my mouth shut. So many others had it much worse and my small cry would do nothing but take away from their voices.

3. My family. I didn’t want anyone in my family to know because I was already the runt of the litter. They would never see me in the same way. I would never be strong in their eyes because this happened to me. I would always be weak because I let it happen.

I didn’t want anyone – least of all my grandmother – to feel guilty. No one let me down. No one could have saved me and I didn’t want anyone to carry my shame.

There was also the fear that no one would believe me – or that some would believe me and it would create a chasm in my family. I couldn’t bear that on top of everything else, so I remained silent.

4. Pity.

It wasn’t until he died that I finally told someone. As it turns out, something similar happened to her, but she never told anyone either. It hurt me to know that she had been hurt and was too afraid to speak. Rather than take those emotions and turn them into something positive – use my voice for good – I shut down even more. I put them into a tiny part of my mind and locked them away, drowning them in alcohol.

I drank to avoid overwhelming emotions. At the time, I thought I was mostly just heartbroken and frustrated in my relationship, as well as stressed from work, school, family issues, etc. Once I quit drinking, however, that tiny part of my brain opened up again and everything fell out. After three years and nine months without a drink, I’ve come to a few realizations with regards my assault:

1. I have nothing to be guilty for. He was a pedophile who took advantage of his position, age, and physical strength to sexually assault an eleven-year-old girl. He’s burning in Hell and I gladly dance on his grave.

2. My voice matters. I was sexually assaulted and I don’t want that for my nieces. If it takes me saying something, then I’ll scream it. I don’t want them to grow up in a society that doesn’t believe a woman who says she was sexually assaulted unless she has a list of witnesses, photographic evidence, a positive rape kit, and a signed confession from her attacker. I want them to grow up in a culture that protects its women and defends them by believing them first and foremost, and then locks up offenders for more than a few months.

3. I love my family more than anything in this world. I want to be the best person I can be for them. I want them to be proud of me and I want them to know that I will do anything for them.

4. I am not a victim anymore. I was for a very long time, and it took a lot of work to discover where and why I was still hurting, but I’m not hurting anymore. These past few years have been the most trying of my life, but I’m emerging stronger and better than I was before. I am a survivor. I have been hurt, I have lost loved ones, I’ve run myself into the ground, but I’m alive. In all honesty, that’s more than I thought I would be at this point. I’ve seen darkness. I’ve lived in it. I’ve loved it for the isolation it provides, but I don’t want to be isolated anymore. There is so much light in my life now and I want to be a part of it.

So, that’s what I’m going to do.

#miaborders #memoir #good and bad catholics #non-fiction

Pre-order my new album now from @pledgemusic! A part of the proceeds will go to #UptownShepherdsCenter for senior citizens. Link in bio.

#uptownshepherdscenter

“Everybody Plays the Fool”

-The Main Ingredient (1972)

People talk often about the idea of life changing “in an instant,” “in a flash,” “at first sight,” etc. It’s not something I put too much stock in; I believe more in gradual change over long periods of time without us consciously realizing what’s happening. That said, I do remember an instant many years ago in which I knew my life would be forever changed[1].

I worked at the library at Loyola University for the four years I was a student there. I saw people come and go and crossed paths with nearly everyone on campus at some point. From my desk, I had a view of the giant glass doors and I could see everyone walking up to the building before they crossed the threshold. As I saw one person coming into the library, I simultaneously watched her walk into my life, knowing that I wouldn’t be the same thereafter.

Her name was Olivia, she was a cellist, and she needed a copy of a recording of one of Dvořák’s cello concerti[2]. The music library wasn’t my area and I had no idea where to go or what to show her, but I jumped out of my chair and volunteered to help. I should mention here that I’m not the kind of person who ever volunteers for social interaction with strangers, but for whatever reason, I needed to be around her. I knew before she even opened the library door that she would break my heart, but I genuinely didn’t care; I had to be in her life in any way she would have me.

She wound up finding what she needed without any help from me, but we talked, introduced ourselves, bonded quickly over being both brown girls and musicians, and I was hooked. She started coming in more and more, lingering longer at the desk, and we became fast friends. She gave me her number and we talked on the phone for hours, texted constantly, and eventually hung out outside of the library.

I knew that what she felt for me was not even on the same plane as what I felt for her, but I couldn’t stop myself. Being around her quickly became some sort of addiction. I say “addiction” because it was most certainly self-destructive. There’s never a positive outcome when one person is head over heels in love with the other while they just say things like, “You’re so funny! I love hanging out with you!” Every morning was exciting with the possibility of seeing her and every night was devastating knowing that she would never look at me that way.

She went back home to Atlanta for the summer and I tried my damnedest to get over it. We were such good friends and I didn’t want to jeopardize that, so I needed to shut the sappy shit down. My brother was the only person who knew how I felt about her, so I asked him to help set me straight[3]. He reminded me that all I was doing was hurting myself. Everything he said was logical and I walked away agreeing with him completely. Then, she invited me to her house for a few days and logic went flying out of the window.

The entire eight-hour drive, I was asking myself what the hell I was doing. Why are you spending your gas money on a straight girl? Pull your head out of your ass and turn around! Why doesn’t New Orleans have a Waffle house?

I didn’t turn around. I should’ve turned around.

When I got to her house, she grabbed my bag and showed me to her room. Of course, there was only one bed and no pull-out/floor option for me.

“Just sleep with me. It’s no big deal,” she said.

“Yeah, totally. No biggie,” I responded, although it was a biggie. A very big biggie.

We had dinner with her family and she took me to a park later that night – one of her favorite places in the city. The greatest thing about her was that we could hang out all day and all night and never run out of things to say. I’m such a socially weird person, that something like that is huge for me. I usually get sick of talking to the same people after a certain number of hours or days, but I never got sick of her.

At the end of my trip, she kissed me goodbye. It wasn’t a full-on lip kiss, but it definitely wasn’t a cheek situation either. It was just enough of both to make me scream my head off for the entire drive home.

She texted to see if I made it home okay and I told her that I had. Then, she sent me something that made me respond out loud with the exact words, “Well, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?!” It was the first time, but certainly not the last[4].

Liv: I’m really glad you came to see me! J

Mia: Me too! It was fun.

Liv: It was. You make me wonder, but you make me smile even more.

Seriously. What the fuck is that?

She came back to New Orleans a few days earlier than she needed to at the end of the summer. The night she got in, she called me from outside of my house. I didn’t really understand why she didn’t just go to bed and call me in the morning, but females be crazy, so I just went with it. We hung out outside, didn’t really talk about anything serious, and then she left. We got breakfast the next morning. We could’ve just done the breakfast thing instead of me going outside in my jammies, but again, females be crazy.

That night after dinner[5], she came back to my house. I don’t remember anything we talked about or what movie we watched because she kissed me. No more of that half-cheek/half-lip situation, either. This was a real deal, whole shebang, full monty smackeroo. That was it: she had me. Hook, line, and pitiful fish flopping at the end of it.

The next year was incredible. I finally understood what all of those love songs were about. In fact, I wrote entirely too many myself[6], but everything was gravy. I had my very first girlfriend. The band was playing regularly, learning all of these new songs, and getting tighter. School and work were both going well. Overall, I’m pretty sure my life added up to the definition of “crushing it.”

There was a downside, however, which I completely ignored. No one knew about our relationship. Olivia gave me reasons on top of reasons to keep it a secret, all of which I went along with because here was this hot girl who I was totally in love with who actually felt something similar for me. I wasn’t going to do anything to ruin that. The concern mostly lay with her friends and family finding out, so slowly, I told my friends and a few family members. She probably wasn’t cool with it, but I didn’t really give her a say in the matter. I knew there was no way it would get back to her people and I would lose my mind if I couldn’t at least talk to my brother about how happy I was. I also wanted her to see that there are wonderful people in the world who love you no matter what and I thought that maybe if she saw that on my side, she’d be more confident on hers. She wasn’t.

After a few more months of closeted living, I started to snap. I became convinced that she was cheating on me. I knew she was very capable of secrets and it wouldn’t have been a stretch for her to extend those secrets to me. My paranoia only grew the more she told me I was wrong. If I knew she had study plans with a particular girl we hung out with, I would periodically drive past her apartment to see how long her light stayed on. She saw me once. We started to fight more and more, I started to drink more and more, and I knew I was on a slippery slope. I realized the only way to stop myself was to end our relationship.

I went to her apartment one night and got right to the point. I told her I wasn’t happy with the person I was becoming and that I felt like I was losing my mind. I didn’t want to lie anymore. I didn’t want to feel like I was her dirty little secret. My entire identity was based on this relationship and I needed time and space to regain sight of myself.

She cried hysterically and without reservation. I had to get out of there.

“I’ll see you around,” I said.

“What does that mean?” she asked desperately.

“I have to go. I can’t be around you.” I went for the door. She called me back, asked me to stay. I should’ve kept going, but I told myself that this show of emotion from her was what I really needed to ground myself again. I wasn’t emotionally alone in the relationship if she could react so fervently. We could make it over this bump in the road and get back to the good stuff. If she could cry like that over the possibility of us breaking up, she must have really loved me, and love is all that matters. I should not have turned around, but I did. And I stayed. And everything that happened after that was my own damn fault.

She broke up with me one week later using my own words against me. She wasn’t happy. She needed time and space. She couldn’t be around me.

The radio silence didn’t last long and after a few weeks, we were talking again. We were “friends” and everything should have been fine, but it wasn’t. I was writing some seriously sad songs[7] and she didn’t seem any more okay than I was. We danced around the idea of getting back together, but I told her that I didn’t want to be a secret anymore. That did not go over well and, suffice it to say, we did not get back together.

I started dating someone else – a guy who loved me as much as I loved Olivia. I used that to regain some sort of sense of power. I felt so small by the end of my relationship with Olivia and here was this other person wanting me, needing me, clinging to me the way I had clung to her. I needed that validation, that feeling of emotional domination. I crushed him so that I could feel an inch taller. I wish I could say that I saw the error of my ways before any real damage was done. I can’t. I also wish I could say it was the one and only time I’ve ever treated someone so terribly. I can’t.

A year and a half after we first broke up, Olivia and I got back together. Looking back now, I really can’t say why. More than anything, I guess I just crumbled under the weight of the feelings that I still had for her. She still had feelings for me and I took the bait again. I lost every little bit of strength and resolve I found while we were apart and I went running back to her.

There was another honeymoon phase, but it was much shorter the second time around. We were now in a long-distance relationship, so everything was put under a microscope. Without face-to-face contact to make us temporarily forget the annoying things about one another, I began to see things in her that I didn’t like – things I didn’t want in a long-term partner. We disagreed on more crucial things than we did before. We fought more. We no longer fit and I started checking out of the relationship. She would monopolize phone conversations, which was fine with me because I ran out of things to say to her. I didn’t respond to her texts with the immediacy that I used to. I felt the same sense of impending doom as the first time around, but I knew given what happened then, that I would never be the one to end it. So, I waited. I waited for months for her break up with me. I knew it would happen eventually and so I sat through meaningless conversation after meaningless conversation, writing songs about the relationship that we used to have, pretending they were still relevant.

She called herself a “bad girlfriend” all the time. Maybe she knew. Maybe she figured out that I wasn’t in love with her anymore and so she decided to cut me loose. The more likely scenario, though, is that she was just as tired of the charade as I was and so she finally ended it. I was relieved. Things fell back into place. We were friends this time, not “friends.” We had periods when we didn’t really talk, but there wasn’t any hostility.

She visited one January and we had a really nice time. There was no tension or discomfort whatsoever. A few weeks later, I started to pick up on a weird vibe from her. I couldn’t put my finger on it, so I dropped it. In May, I asked her if she was in a relationship. She skirted around the question, instead asking me why I was asking that. I knew then and there, and she confessed.

She’d been keeping it from me for months and had no plans to ever say anything about it. I asked her if she’d planned on saying anything to anyone about it and she said no. I told her if she cared at all about her new girlfriend, she wouldn’t put her through what she put me through. It seemed to go in one ear and out the other. That may be because I was screaming it at the top of my lungs, so incredibly pissed that she’d been lying to me by omission for so long, knowing full well how seriously I took honesty – especially between us. I was livid. I threw my phone, punched a wall, and cried and yelled so hard I could barely speak the next day.

My gut reaction was jealousy. We were together for a year and a half, then broken up for a year and a half, then together again for another year and a half. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I must have just assumed that we would get back together again – no matter how depressed it made me. I was so used to the on and off nature of it, that I wasn’t sure what to do with this new information.

I snapped out of that nonsense pretty quickly. I didn’t want to be with Olivia ever again; I knew that a long time ago. My brain just went there immediately to allow myself the space to be angry, but that wasn’t why I was angry. I wasn’t mad because we weren’t getting back together. I wasn’t mad because she loved someone else. I was mad because I spent years knowing her more intimately than anyone else ever had, and yet she treated me with no more respect than anyone else in her life. I was just another person from whom to hide the truth.

For the duration of our entire relationship, I had her up on a pedestal. I treated her as though she would break if I said or did something too harshly. I weighed my words before I spoke so that I was sure I wouldn’t hurt her. To be fair, she never did anything to make me treat her this way; I just did it. It started when I was young and naïve and in love and it never went away. I never wanted to disrespect her or treat her unkindly, so I just went along with what she wanted and took everything she threw at me, good or bad. Those were the roles that I put us in and I didn’t realize how stupid I’d been until reality bitch-slapped me in the face. The realization that she didn’t treat me with the same respect or consider my feelings as much as I did hers should not have come as a surprise. The fact that we’d been in each other’s lives for six years at that point without anyone knowing who I really was to her should’ve been a huge red flag, but I was an idiot. I knew exactly what I was signing up for when she first kissed me; she was never dishonest about that. I just didn’t listen. I was a stupid kid in love.

I was angry for years after that last conversation with Olivia. I wrote almost an entire album about it[8]. I didn’t even say her name anymore; I replaced it with curses. I tore up photos, threw away gifts, and tried everything in my power to eradicate her existence from my life.

It hit me one day that my anger wasn’t completely reserved for her. I could’ve done without the dishonesty and had just a dash more of respect, but in the end, I knew the kind of person she was and it was my own damn fault for staying in her apartment that night when every fiber of my being said, “go.”

Knowing that in huge part because of my foolishness, I won’t get back the years of my life that followed that night – years that I spent depressed, drinking, crying, hurting people, questioning myself – is a very hard pill to swallow. I still get mad at myself every once in a while, but for the most part, I have other shit to worry about and happier songs to write.

-----

[1] What a friggin’ hypocrite.

[2] I just hit y’all with some fancy shit.

[3] Not like that, but kind of. Not really. You know what I mean.

[4] Guys: I totally get it. Ladies: that shit is annoying.

[5] Yes, it was a breakfast-lunch-and-dinner kind of friendship. As all should be.

[6] See: “Let Me Know,” “U I Adore”

[7] See: “The Very Best Part of Me,” “Love Song,” “Sweet Septembers”

[8] See: Quarter-Life Crisis

#mia borders #memoir #good & bad catholics #lgbt #non-fiction

elspethmichaels

Brain

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Amazeballs.

Trinity Episcopal School - Alumni Chapel Speech

Although it’s my job to perform in front of crowds of sometimes thousands of people, public speaking has always been my arch nemesis. In fact, the last speech I gave was in this very pulpit, 13 years ago. I threw up beforehand and cried into my grandmother’s lap before delivering what I’m told was a pretty solid speech about the Greek Olympics. I haven’t thrown up or cried today, so, we’ll see how it goes.

I suppose I should give a little more background on myself for those of you who don’t know me – which goes for most of you. I’ve been a professional musician for the past 8 1/2 years. I tour the country, sometimes other countries, performing my original music. I’ve been singing and otherwise drawing attention to myself my entire life. I began writing music in earnest when I was around 13 or 14, and I haven’t stopped since. Contrary to some of my family members’ beliefs, I work very hard at what I do. I’m also incredibly lucky. There aren’t many people who are able to make a living following their life-long dream and I’m very grateful to be one them. I’m also very grateful to be here with all of you today. After all, this is where I got my start.

I’ll be perfectly honest with you. My time here was difficult. I was a different kid. I stood out for all the wrong reasons and when you’re a kid, standing out isn’t always great. Maybe some of you in here know what I’m talking about. Maybe some of you are having a difficult time, too. I can relate. While I can’t really help you with the day-to-day struggles, I can let you in on a secret. It’s tough to get through now, but I promise that it’ll make you stronger in the long run. I know that’s what everyone always says and it means nothing to you now, but I’m living proof. A lot of alumni are. I am who I am today; I’ve accomplished what I have, in large part because of my time here at Trinity.

Ever since I was little, music has always been a huge part of my life. I used to put on concerts for my family and my dolls. I would sing and dance and put on pretty fantastic shows, if I do say so myself. My grandmother put me in piano lessons when I was 7 or 8, even though I hated it. She wanted me to have a solid musical base by learning piano. She was right, for the record, and I wish I hadn’t quit so eagerly, but I did as soon as she agreed to sign me up for guitar lessons. I was 11 and it was a dream come true. I wanted to play guitar for as long as I could remember. It was, by far, the coolest thing I had ever seen. It seemed like anyone who played guitar was automatically cool, and that was exactly what I needed. I thought that rocking out and shredding solos would finally get me in the popular club. It didn’t – not even close, and I certainly can’t shred any solos – but it did give me something that I lost a long time ago. I was a really outgoing kid in nursery school and at home, but when I got a little older and my differences were put on display, I hid. I disappeared inside of myself and I didn’t realize how big of a mistake that was – until I started playing guitar.

It took me a while to build up some confidence, but eventually, I joined a few boys in my class and Father Michael for Guitar Chapel. Those Mondays were my first performances in front of a crowd. Immediately, I felt better about myself. This was something I could do that not everyone else could. I was the only girl (I still am, for the most part), and while the other girls didn’t really get why I would be interested in such a thing, they respected it – as much as one child can respect another. Life got a little easier. I wasn’t the coolest kid in school by any stretch of the imagination, but people’s attitudes towards me changed. I had something; something I was good at, something that made me happy, and when you have that, you’re untouchable.

I’m not here to tell all of you to go out and get a guitar – although you really should; it’s awesome. I’m just here as someone who struggled a little bit. I had a hard time finding my way. For me, what opened up my life was a guitar. I started writing and composing and creating stuff that allowed me to fully express myself, and in turn, fully know myself. After Trinity, I went to boarding school – which I also highly recommend – and because I had this secret weapon, this knowledge of what I was capable of, I had a great time. I made a lot of friends; I made a lot of music, and my journey to where I am now started in earnest. I came back home to New Orleans for college, started a band, and now I’m here with you guys. It hasn’t been perfectly smooth sailing all the way, but it’s been fulfilling. Like I said, I’m one of the lucky ones.

It’s funny that I was asked to speak here because I was just thinking about this place. Someone in my band was talking about me as a bandleader and the words he used to describe me were eerily similar to words that I uttered here on a daily basis. He said I was kind, honest, generous, and confident. It clicked. All these years later, I still carry this place with me: gentle, generous, truthful, kind, and brave. No matter where I go, what I do, Trinity will always be a part of me, and I’m so grateful for that, because the lessons that I learned here are some of the most important of my life.

Acceptance starts within you. It’s impossible when you’re a kid – or even an adult sometimes – to know where you’ll wind up or what you want to do with your life. And that’s okay. What matters is that you start looking and you never stop. To paraphrase a famous quote, “Find what you love, and do it for the rest of your life.”

9.25.14

“He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother”

-The Hollies (1969)

If you find yourself looking for the model of a good guy, look no further than my big brother, Raúl[1]. He’s handsome, kind, funny, supportive, and humble. Just ask him…

My brother is ten years my senior, which I genuinely believe is the only reason one of us never murdered the other. We were never stuck in the same school at the same time, never hung out with the same people during our formative years, never dated each other’s friends, etc. He was at Trinity a decade before me, and then I eventually followed in his footsteps to boarding school in Connecticut. It was pretty nice knowing he was out there getting the world ready for me; preparing them for the magnificence that was to follow in his wake.

Raúl and I did not have too many opportunities to hang out when I was younger because of our age gap. By the time I was generating cohesive thoughts and sentences, he was at boarding school over one thousand miles away. Even when he was not physically there, he was always a huge presence in my life. My family talked about him all the time. As a small child, he seemed to be a tremendous force; some sort of superhero that went away to solve crimes and save the world. I would sit in his room, lay on his bed, put on shirts that he left behind. I took all of his toys[2], mostly because I was a kid and any toys in the house should belong to me, but also because I missed him without even really knowing him. To me, he was the bigger kid who taught me to dance, tickled me, and put records on for me. Then, one day he left. On the days that I was not out playing or causing a ruckus somewhere, it felt like he left me behind. Obviously, that was not the case, but for a child who is clearly the center of the universe, I took it pretty hard.

Like any younger sibling, there is a laundry list of things I hate about my older brother. Among them:

For whatever reason, he is the only person in my family that was not baptized Catholic. He just has to be different…

He has dimples that look like someone put pins in his chubby little cheeks. They’re adorable.

His calves are magnificent[3].

He is usually right.

While that last one in particular pains me to admit (especially in writing), it is the truth. His advice is usually spot-on and I never regret going to him with a problem. I have struggled a lot throughout my life and I can always count on him to say the right thing. It is very obnoxious, but it is also one of the reasons I love him so much.

He became the most involved in my life when I was thirteen and about to leave for boarding school. He took me to Cheesecake Bistro and told me to ask him anything. My first question was obviously about drinking, as I had already developed quite a taste for it. I tried to play if off, though, as mere curiosity. I am not sure if he bought it, but he did give me one rule: Never do it on campus. He also applied that to smoking pot, which at the time seemed completely ridiculous to me. He told me stories of people he knew that were thrown out of school for drinking and smoking and made me promise that I would not do the same. According to the man himself, he left quite a reputation behind and I had big shoes to fill. I could not go and mess it up.

While I knew he was exaggerating and not intentionally putting pressure on me, I took him very seriously. I was genuinely terrified of boarding school; leaving everything and everyone behind was something I was not even remotely interested in doing, but I was even more afraid of saying that out loud. I continued eating my garlic pasta while he went on, telling more stories about the pranks he and his friends pulled, the secret tunnels underneath the school[4], and who the coolest teachers were. When he said to me, “You have to promise to keep your V-card until you’re 18,” I choked, and we moved on.

Since that lunch, I have considered him to be my best friend. Others have come and gone in catastrophic fashion, but Raúl has always been there. When my roommate freshman year criticized me for being Catholic, I called him. When one of my closest friends and I stopped speaking to each other sophomore year, when I broke up with my first serious boyfriend junior year, when I found out that my ex boyfriend and my best friend were sleeping together senior year, I called him. When college happened, I called him. Whenever the next stupid thing happens to me, he will be my first call[5].

For a long time, one of my biggest regrets in life was that I was not there for my brother in the way that he was for me. The only time I remember him needing me was at our mother’s funeral. At the cemetery, he was seated next the casket, crying. I took a rose from the floral arrangement and gave it to him. He grabbed me so tightly that I could barely breathe and he buried his face in my neck. Of everything that happened with my mother, that moment struck me the hardest. Here was my big brother, the toughest guy I knew, clinging onto me – his scrawny little kid sister – desperately. I hugged him back, understanding even then that from that moment on, it was us.

That moment has stayed with me for over twenty years. Whether he remembers it or not, I cannot say. In my experience, most of what happened around that time was a huge blur, and my brother and I do not talk about it. He is a complex and stoic man, and I admire him for that. He cares about me more than anyone ever will and while I never earned the title of his best friend[6], I know he knows that I am always here.

As I write this, he is embarking on a huge new chapter in his life and I could not be more proud. Every day that I am around him, I learn something. Whether it is about him or myself or housework, it always proves to be invaluable. Whenever I stop to think about my life and my future, I always catch myself thinking, When I grow up, I want to be just like my big brother.

[1] The names in this thing are obviously fake to conceal the identities of my family and friends from crazy people admirers. My brother chose his own.

[2] He still gives me shit for taking baths with his Voltron figurine. It was metal and so it rusted, but V and I had a relationship that my brother simply cannot understand. Bath buddies. That’s real.

[3] Whenever I am walking behind him he flexes unnecessarily just to make me jealous. It works every time.

[4] Which do not exist. Or do they…?

[5] Unless, it has to be my lawyer, which would not surprise anyone

[6] Because that would be admittedly creepy coming from a grown man to his little sister

#mia borders #memoir #good & bad catholics

I am 44 years old and in twenty days I will be clean and sober 25 years. I wasnt much for AA either, but i did try it. I loved your post. Life or Death, thats the choice I make everyday for almost 25 years. If you keep that always in your sights you will succeed. Do not diminish that accomplishment simply because its not will power, look around you... many are not making the choice to live. Be proud of yourself...one last thing.. its amazing how much clarity comes with each day of sobriety

Thanks so much. And a big congrats to you!

How hard was it to write this sobriety entry?

I don't know if I would call it hard. It was more necessary than anything. It was very cathartic, which is what I love about writing.

On Being Sober – 1 Year Later

People quit the good stuff for various reasons. Some do it for their health, some for their families, for their work. Some people get angry, violent, or depressed under the influence. I am what is affectionately known as a “black-out drunk.” When my brain decides I’ve had enough and it’s sleepy time, my body goes rogue and keeps on keeping on. While this led to many a fun night for my friends and strangers I encountered along the way, it’s actually pretty scary to wake up on a regular basis and not know what happened the night before. Even scarier is how good I am at acting like I’m not blacked out.

September 11-18 of 2012 was a rough week in terms of my drinking. Tuesdays were my night for drinking out, so I went to the bar I was frequenting at the time and had too many. Then, I went to a nearby bar with some friends and had more. I imagine I threw up at some point, because that always encouraged me to continue drinking. Obviously, there is no logic behind that thought, but that’s just how I rolled.

I woke up the next morning in my jammies tucked in bed, hoping that my car wasn’t parked outside of my house. At least once I would have liked to be responsible and cab it home, but in all my years of drinking, it never happened. I drove myself home every single time whether I was tipsy, drunk, or completely blacked out.

A friend texted me and told me how hilarious I was the night before and encouraged me to come out again. When we met up, I heard the ridiculously embarrassing stories of what I did. While we unfortunately had conversations like this on a regular basis, for the first time, something in the back of my brain clicked. She was telling me story after story of how inappropriate I had been and kept calling it “hilarious.” I had no recollection of any of it. Before letting this sink in too deeply, I knocked back a lot of whiskeys and again drove myself home.

I stopped drinking the next week. Friends and family asked me why I was declining beers and shots and I played it off. My first excuse was that I saw myself on TV the week before and my face looked fat, so I figured the easiest way to shed a few pounds was to take a break from drinking. Although it was true that my face was super chubby, this was a lie I was telling myself – the first lie of many.

The next was that because we were going into the studio to record my next album, I wanted my voice in the best shape possible and not drinking would help. While this is also true, it’s also bullshit. I’ve been in the studio a dozen times and I’ve always had a drink in my hand throughout the process.

Then, I blamed the cigarettes. Since I got to the point where I was only smoking when drinking, I said that if I quit drinking for a while, I could get a handle on not smoking and then work my way back to doing one without the other. This too was absolute malarkey.

Once it became clear that this wasn’t as temporary as I initially made it seem, the reactions were pretty varied. My family for the most part seemed relieved. We have a history of alcoholism and I was definitely the most likely candidate to carry on the tradition. My friends were all confused. Why did I need to stop drinking? Couldn’t I just take it easy and not drink so much? Besides, it’s not like I’m an alcoholic or anything. I’m way too young for that.

I’ll admit, when a friend of mine told me that she stopped drinking, my first thought was, “That’s fucking lame.” I didn’t say that to her face, but I definitely felt that way, so I understand where my friends were coming from when I told them the same thing. While they didn’t hesitate to tell me how lame I was, being honest about where I was coming from helped me come to terms with my issues. In fact, it helped me so much that I decided to go public. I posted monthly about my sobriety milestones in order to keep myself in check. Having people across the country congratulate me and tell me their own stories helped me realize that it can actually be done. Where I am is just the beginning and the hundreds of people that have reached out to me allow me to hold myself more accountable.

Everyone’s addiction is different, so I don’t presume to speak on anyone else’s behalf. I will say that for me, AA isn’t the way to go right now. I’ve read the book and see myself in some of the chapters, but can’t even begin to relate to most. I have a support system that I can rely on and people who I can talk to who know what I’m going through, which is a huge asset that I don’t take for granted. Also, I’m very socially awkward and talking about myself in a room full of strangers scares the bejeezus out of me.

One last thing I’ll say is that my sobriety has nothing to do with willpower. People who don’t understand the disease comment all the time on how strong my will is, when in reality, it has nothing to with what I’m doing. I’m not on a diet, avoiding cookies and cupcakes. This is something that I know is life or death. Before I stopped drinking, I was fairly certain that my death would more than likely involve alcohol. I would either accidentally mix my arthritis pain medication with too much whiskey, drink myself into a coma, or simply drive into a pole. I made a conscious decision to help myself live as long as possible and that’s all this is. Plus, I enjoy a bit of mystery in my life.

P.S. Re: Willpower. I haven’t had fast food since New Year’s Eve. Boom.

"Where My Girls At?”

-702 (1999)

My childhood outside of school was much less dramatic. My best friend Vicki lived in the next block, so I spent most of my free time with her. While her house was not akin to a castle and her mother reminded me constantly that they were not rich, they were well off enough that their home was leaps and bounds cooler than my house. There was a staircase, a pool table, lofts instead of beds, paintings on the walls, multiple bathrooms, a porch swing, etc. Plus, their house doubled as a bed and breakfast with super cool strangers from all over the world, indulging our curiosity and telling us stories from their travels. Even then I knew that my beginnings were humble and to play at my house as opposed to hers would have been silly - not to mention embarrassing. I know Vicki would never have believed that, but I was already so aware of my socioeconomic status compared to those around me that I prematurely carried a sense of shame[1] when it came to things like my family's home, Grama's Oldsmobile, and my Payless sneakers.

Vicki and her family were always good to me. They were members of a neighborhood swimming pool and they often invited me to join them during the summer. They didn't realize, however, that I didn't know how to swim. They thought I simply was not a strong swimmer and so they kept an eye on me. I would hang out on the steps by myself, watching Vicki and our other best friend Samantha frolicking around in the water, even occasionally venturing into the deep end. With jealously in my heart, I would slowly make my way down the steps, making sure no one was watching too carefully as I got closer to being submerged. When anyone glanced my way, I would quickly retreat to the top and go back to splashing myself and giggling. Fools, I thought. When I get under the water, I'll swim just like a mermaid and you will all be so impressed.

I did not swim just like a mermaid. Instead, I splashed around violently, my arms desperate to keep my head above water as my eye line quickly shifted back and forth from my flailing hands and feet underwater to Vicki's parents and several other adults rushing to my aid above ground. They would pull me out, make sure I hadn't choked, and once I convinced them that I would only sit on the top step and lightly splash around, they would leave me be. After a certain amount of time had passed and they were back to relaxing and chatting amongst themselves, I would go at it again. This happened several times, with either Vicki's father or mother literally having to save my life yet again. Bless them. Were I in their position, after the fifth time, I probably would have let Darwinism take over.

After they got tired of this routine, they enrolled me and Vicki in swimming lessons[2]. As soon as we entered the gym for the first time, I looked up at the highest platform and told Vicki that I would jump off of it by the time we finished the class. That was obviously a long shot seeing as how I couldn’t even swim, but at least I had high hopes. Once we got to the lessons, though, I took to the water very naturally and became a pretty solid swimmer, graduating from the class like a champ. While I did not make it to the top diving platform, I did make it to the baby diving board and did a front flip (landing on my face) the very first time. Since Vicki's mom registered us in the class together, when I finished, my certificate read "Mia Briggs[3]." Grama kept it on the fridge for years.

(With my partners in crime, Vicki and Samantha. Our resident male P.I.C., Chris, is in the background doing whatever boys do… Also, I’m in a bathing suit for no reason whatsoever.)

Another milestone brought to me by my friendship with Vicki and was the removal of my training wheels. I saw Vicki and Samantha riding around on their two wheels, and again the green monster in my heart began to rear his ugly head. I asked Vicki's dad to remove my training wheels, assured that I could ride without them. Obviously, I proved myself wrong, crashing immediately and removing a large piece of flesh from my left knee[4]. Blood be damned, I got back on the bike. Vicki's dad held the back of my seat with one hand while I situated my feet. I slowly started to pedal down the driveway. Soon, Vicki and Samantha were cheering me on and I realized Vicki's dad wasn't holding on to the bike anymore. I quickly freaked out and gave myself a matching skinned knee on the right side, but like the champ I was, I eventually showed that purple Huffy who was boss and made it my bitch everyday after that. Obviously, it still gets me amped thinking about it.

Even now, I ride my bike regularly, although now it’s mounted to a trainer in my living room. I don’t understand why people ride around outside when they could be watching Law & Order: Special Victims Unit in an air-conditioned room.

Some people have heard those landmark stories of my childhood and feel bad that those experiences were not shared with my own family. Sure, my dad could have taught me to swim and ride a bike, but the man had a job, people. He worked out of town to mail home the bacon[5], and Grama was not a great option for any pastime that was not Bridge, Pokeno, or watching Wheel of Fortune. That said, come at me with a deck of cards or some Hangman. You will get housed Grama-style.

P.S. I find it to be of utmost importance to note that my first White Man Crush was on Samantha’s father. He was an artist and a bachelor and he never really seemed to do much with his days, so when we were hanging out at their apartment, there was always plenty of free time to be spent with him. He appeared to really be making the most of that thing called Adulthood, which made him even more attractive. He had beautiful eyes and an Australian accent, making him like my own personal Hugh Grant[6]. I sometimes still get the giggles when I see him.

If you’re reading this… Hey, Jack.

[1] And with it, a sense of guilt regarding this shame, like any good Catholic.

[2] Vicki didn’t need the lessons, but they insisted that she could always get better. I imagine, though, that they just didn’t want me to be alone. Nice folks. Do people still say “folks?”

[3] Several years later, one of my cousins had his appendix taken out. His sister and I took it upon ourselves to nurse him back to health. He called me Nurse Briggs for years. Now that I think about it, he still does sometimes.

[4] 1 pair of bloody pants = 1 pissed off Grama

[5] Which I didn’t come to understand for years, partially leading to a hugely dramatic family blowout.

[6] Yes, I know Hugh Grant is British, not Australian, but you try to explain the difference to a child.

#mia borders #good & bad catholics #memoir

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THE EVOLUTION OF A SONG

Part 3 - The studio cut

For my latest album, I was fortunate enough to have Anders Osborne produce. He loved the demos I made, but really brought them to life in the studio along with my incredible band (Rob Lee - drums, Jesse Morrow - bass, Takeshi Shimmura - guitar). Our engineer, Warren Riker, is even more amazing than his résumé says. Google him. Amazeballs...

Recorded at Dockside Studio in Maurice, LA.

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