In the corner of my childhood bedroom sat a seven–foot tall caramel wooden CD shelf, housing yarn from my abandoned knitting phase (I’ve made one hat and started maybe eight scarves), jewelry, bottle caps from glass Cokes and a magic eight ball that never gave the right answer. At eye level, maybe five feet up, stood my CD collection.
Collection might be an overstatement: there were maybe 20 discs in total. It remained meticulously organized in alphabetical order and my internal inventory is acute (Dad, have you returned my Adele CD yet?). Amy Winehouse, The Beatles, the first two Glee CDs (oh god), Green Day, Fergie, Jordin Sparks, Katy Perry, Kanye West, Madonna, Taylor Swift. It was a simpler time.
Next to the square plastic cases, there was a stack of CDs left out to fend for themselves. Coated in dust, some accumulated scratches that rendered them dysfunctional. Many are unremarkable in decoration: often, scratched in sharpie is just a name, a feeling or a season. “Autumn” is unplayable now; “For Jamie” is only 8 songs. Made out to me, just for me, by friends, acquaintances and crushes alike.
With each of the CDs I owned, I engaged in the same ritual: I put on the CD, listening to it front to back end, following along with the accompanying booklet that rests under the plastic tabs of the hardshell, transparent case. I never love an album until I’ve listened to it all the way through.
You know how certain songs remind you of certain people? I have too many songs—entire albums—that transport me to my old bedroom, the scratchy fibers of the floral rug grating my skin as I sprawl out and the raspy boombox blasts. There are songs that I owned, that I spent my babysitting money on. There are songs that owned me. They drowned my eardrums in a wave of reverent thrill. Then there are the ones that were merely lent to me, shared with a plea, meant to please and intimate proximity. Somewhere out there are the melodies, those iridescent discs of affection that I lent out, too.
I had to move out of that room this summer, and all my CDs fit into a shoebox. The shoebox sits neatly between a box of books and a box of schoolwork in the storage closet filled with all of my other belongings. I packed away the angst (oh man, the angst, it could eat me alive), the melancholy, the bliss, the comfort and the fear. Holding all that in my hands, feeling it shuffle around as I carry it away, is a dissonant reminder of growing up and the complicated feelings that come along with it.
Boomboxes take up a lot room. CDs, for that matter, do too. I've had to make do without those discs while living on my own, and have instead come to rely on a bluetooth speaker and streaming services, a sign of the times as much as anything. As the world changes, so do I. Music will always be there, though—a shoulder to lean on and a rush of adrenaline all at the same time. Maybe if growing up is anything, it's making playlists on Spotify instead of burning CDs.
Photo: mlange_b / Flickr
