For a few weeks now, I’ve been thinking a lot about the answer to, “what is your personal stake?” And while I could apply that question to almost anything in my life—and apparently have, which while making me more thoughtful, has also meant absurd inner dialogue along the lines of “what is my stake in cleaning the apartment. ugh.” In this case the this is connected to what keeps me showing up to work with the White People for Black Lives movement. “Wanting to help” is not a full response. The ask is really “what in my life deeply connects to the struggle to ensure that Black lives matter? Where am I situated in this moment to translate my pain in order to take the movement forward? And how will that keep me coming back to fight for the change, recognition, and justice that needs to happen right now for Black, Indigenous, trans, and all people of color’s lives?” Being a woman in this world was where I started. But I knew that was just a pull of the first thread and that I could go deeper.

So I ruminated. I read. I wandered around the neighborhood talking to myself (this, my people, is another reason that mask wearing is seriously useful). I thought more. I listened to a podcast and cried (1619 Project from the NYTimes. Masks are not useful to hide tears). But it was when I pressed play on the HBO documentary On the Record that my seams began to come apart. Drew Dixon was a former A&R executive at Def Jam records who came forward a few years ago to recount her story of ongoing sexual abuse and rape by the company’s founder, Russell Simmons. And while other women were interviewed who had experiences with him that were similar, the narrative was tightly focused on Drew. Her rise in the music industry, her many successes, and her subsequent disappearance from the business altogether. While Drew’s story was also situated in racial issues that I did not experience, ultimately, it was her act of disappearing that completely undid me, uncovering the elements of self-shame and silencing that had driven me out the door and far away from what had always been the love of my life.

Music: Early days, my mom and I singing along to top-forty on the car radio. Walking into the den and seeing my dad transported by his jazz. As a teenager, my study every month of Creem and Hit Parader magazines until I could almost quote the stories about Alice Cooper, Led Zeppelin, Mott the Hoople. All those boys, with their tight trousers and bedroom eyes. All those lyrics that made me uncomfortable in a way I liked. I knew that Robert Plant wasn’t asking his lady to set up a lemonade stand in The Lemon Song. And while there were the occasional stories about The Runaways or Blondie that made me think I could be in a band, and in high school I did sing in a few rock shows put on by the guitar department, this being Southern California Seventies culture where the Eagles and Rush beat out Oklahoma for stage shows, I wasn’t confident that I could cut it as a musician. After reading Pamela Des Barres‘s I’m With the Band, I understood there was a groupie option, but the thought of falling down private airplane stairs because I couldn’t work the stilettos was one of the reasons that kept me from moving toward that life choice. Then I became aware of the music journalists, Lisa Robinson, Julie Burchill, and Caitlin Moran and that flipped the switch. I could live inside the music and also pay my rent without having to callous up my fingers or wear mostly leopard skin.

Moving to New York and interning at Rolling Stone was the first step and once my internship was done, I decided not to leave. They let me stay (free labor and a willingness to work my ass off helped a lot) until an assistant job opened up and they hired me for real. The edit/writing staff was 99% men and the one woman writer there had no interest in helping me become the only other woman writer. So when SPIN magazine offered me the job of replacing the only female music writer on that staff, I jumped. I’d found my dream job. It didn’t even bother me that my office was a hastily cleaned out supply closet they’d shoved a desk inside at the last minute, while all the other (guy) staff writers had spaces with doors that closed properly and air that didn’t smell like bleach. It did unsettle me that my first story meeting was filled with so much suggestive double talk that I’d wished they’d left the disinfectant spray in my office so I could use it to clear the air. But I also chided myself for being so sensitive. I’d known what I was walking into and was well aware that I needed to squelch my hefty case of imposter syndrome along with all traces of being offended by comments, gropings against walls, or assumptions that I was sleeping with every band I interviewed. This was a boy’s club, and while at an early point in my career I’d entertained the idea of bringing my femininity to the job in order to get better interviews, that notion was quickly dispelled after a sustained teasing in one of the weekly meetings that had me shedding hot tears on the inside while my outward facing self laughed and laughed. I was so funny. That moment began the period of shame where instead of speaking up, either on my or any other woman’s behalf, I shut down and carefully crafted the I-can-do-anything-better-than-you persona.

To “manage around a situation” was a phrase I heard a lot in On the Record, and I knew exactly what they meant: to smile at sexual suggestions, maybe let them play with your hair, take a half-step forward, then one back when they moved toward you. The illusion was to welcome, but the stance was to protect. The problem was, I was often crap at that kind of managing. I’d pull up to the game table and when the guy threw down an innuendo, I’d raise him three shots and a lap dance, thinking I was a badass. By the time I left the table and the guys were all slapping me on the back like I was one of them, I had officially folded the hand that held my self respect. I’d feel sad, but not enough to do anything about it. I could admit that I’d wanted to be with the boys not become one. I wanted to be respected for my words, my thoughts, my self, but I didn’t have the courage to self-correct. By the time I devalued myself one last time during a photo shoot for a short-lived band we had called Charity Fuck, where I wore a t-shirt that said, “fuck me, I’m in a band” I wouldn’t have been able to find my feminist funny bone if you’d given me a map and a shovel.

Concurrently during this time, the nineties were bringing loads of fierce and talented women into the spotlight who were making music and rewriting the rule book. From Liz Phair to the Riot Grrrl movement, and there were also women becoming sound technicians, tour managers, booking agents, all the jobs heretofore held by men. These ladies were making headway in an industry where sexism was piped through the air ducts. I’d be curious to know their stories and someday I’ll ask. And while I applauded and adored them, I continued to ignore the inner siren blasting inside of me. I think I’d actually convinced myself that I was actually being a feminist by proving I could take it like a man. But when I paid attention, the ache inside me told me otherwise.

The thing that made it all okay was the music. It could still move me. And it helped that most of the bands I got close to contained feminist-championing men. Standing side-stage at Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Sonic Youth, Soundgarden, Beastie Boys, I would imagine myself vapor and become the sound. This was what I’d come for. But then the music would stop and I’d climb back inside my cage and let the atmosphere turn me to stone. By the time Kurt had died and I was taking the stand in a trial against Bob Guccione Jr for creating a hostile, sexually-charged work environment, music had stopped moving me. Or rather, I had forgotten how to let music move me, so busy was I shedding the deep feelings I thought were slowing me down. But one day soon after Kurt’s funeral and the end of the trial, I just stopped. I ran away. I took off the clown suit of armor and buried it along with my ability to listen to music because every time I did, it hurt too much. The songs would take me back to a time that reminded me how easily I had given myself away, and that made me feel ashamed. To realize I’d decided to give in rather than speak up.

I still haven’t found my way back to the music even though I now see the impossibility of what I was trying to do. Just because I knew going in that the boy’s ran the game, and even though I thought I might be able to play along without losing my whole self, despite watching what happened when I raised my voice and got looks that told me I was being shrill, a bitch, someone raising a ruckus, even though I realize that many women in many careers and workplaces all over the world are still going through exactly the same thing, I continue to feel shame for persisting in my silence.

So my stake: As a woman who put herself in the corner just so she’d be allowed to stay in the room, I’m choosing now to raise my voice with the chorus of Black lives, indigenous, trans, and people of color, so we can stop being silenced and be heard, seen, and believed. So no one will feel they have to pretend to be less than they are or something else entirely in order to stay in the room. And someday I hope to find my music again. Breathe in the vapor.