Rage Against the Machine

I was terribly vulnerable in my early 20s. An adult during the day and a teenager at night. Making money for the first time, without any obligation to save it.

It would have been easy to spend my days in a sleepless, dizzying circle. Office. Gym. Club. Repeat.

But then there was Rage Against the Machine.

At an age when nothing seemed all that serious, I was bludgeoned with passion. At an age when cynicism seemed attractive, I was infected with seriousness.

Twelve compromised years later, I am haunted by lyrics. When I try to hide inside the crowded bars of The Strokes or the bewildering streets of The National, I can't forget "there be no shelter here. The frontline is everywhere." When I discuss the best school districts and curricula, I remember that my enemies are "the teachers who taught me to fight me." When I want to go to sleep, I hear a voice now embedded inside my brain screaming, "Wake up."

I am imperfect. And ironic. More Jon Stewart than Tom Frank. I over-accommodate. Over-indulge. And under-commit. But I also blockwalk and phonebank and fight fire with fire.

I am a better person because of a band.

Rage Against the Machine. There will never be another.



Cross posted at SquareState.