What Janis Joplin Taught Me
Janis taught me that we all have as many phases as the moon.
I first heard Janis Joplin crooning as a child, on the radio. We drove to my great-grandmother’s house that day through the roads that carved the Everglades in half, windows cracked in the balmy summertime air. Sweat prickled on my forehead, intensified by the humidity. Being in South Florida felt like a soup.
My mom reached over and cranked up the volume knob on the stereo. We were in her ancient Dodge Caravan, the one with the rolling door whose sound I came to associate with my childhood. Now, they have the sleek minivans whose doors open with a remote, but back then we had to throw a giant piece of metal open with a roar.
The song was “Summertime”, of course. The announcers had blurted that much out between the insane noises and shockjock debauchery that littered nineties radio. My mom sang along as best she could, her wild red curls thrown into disarray as she whipped her head back and forth to the rhythm. I hummed along to the tune, infected by the glorious voice streaming through the scratchy speakers.
Old music usually made me sad, and there was something mournful about Janis’s rendition of “Summertime”, no doubt about it. But instead of feeling sad, I was uplifted and inspired. A deep-voiced soulful woman on the…
