Janis Joplin Defines a Mommy

Some people’s memory cheats them and others, like me, remember so much that it sometimes seems to be a curse. I’ve often been teased that I can remember the day I was born. Seldom do I forget the details of an event, a place, a gathering – even down to what people were wearing and always what was said. But sometimes all the memories connect and help you define your life in some ways.

When I was 13 years old I developed a mad crush at my piano concert. His name was Travis and he was the older brother of one of the other students. He was 5 years older than me, in fact. I shared my love from afar with my mom and she admired my taste and opted to contribute to, rather than discourage, my interest. She decided we should visit the Italian restaurant where he worked. I was giddy.

We asked to be sat at his table when we arrived and spotted him in the back. I can’t say that I said a whole lot during his visits to our table, but my mom was always a good conversationalist and picked up the slack. When he began writing our order in his black ticket holder my mom noticed a picture glued to the back of his folder.

“Wow, you like Janis Joplin? I’m surprised you know her music,” my mom commented.

I don’t remember what else they said about the musical icon. What I do remember is that was the night I was introduced to the singer that would be present in so many memories for the rest of my life. On the way home mom explained to me who Janis was and how she was an icon of the sixties. She spared no details. She told me which songs were her most well known, that she played at the Monterey Pop Festival and Woodstock, that she was part of the Haight-Ashbury scene, her nickname was pearl, that her drink of choice was Southern Comfort and that she died of an overdose. She also took this opportunity to share a bit of pop culture history. It was then that I also learned about Jack Kourac and the beatniks and the beginning of the hippy generation.

Shortly after that night she bought me my first Janis Joplin CD, Pearl. I was in love. I stared at the picture of her on the cover and her feathers and boas and wanted to be that flamboyant. I longed to feel that sure of myself and my style. (Something that was not exactly embraced by my small town peers.) Pearl quickly became the soundtrack of my youth.

The lyrics to Me and Bobby McGee and Mercedes Benz could be found on every notebook I owned, complete with flower and peace sign graffiti. I would sing Me and Bobby McGee in my room night after night and perfect my sultry, drunken duet with Janis – convinced I sounded exactly like her.

As I became older and a teen of the 90’s I embraced my old soul and lived my life in a fashion I like to think of as “Janis-like, but with boundaries.” I broke away from the popular crowd of cheerleaders and honor roll students and found my way into the hearts of those who longed for the freedom I did. Freedom from our small town and freedom from judgment. I read the Janis Joplin biography written by her sister and did my senior term paper on the life of Janis Joplin. It was then that I understood my connection even more. We shared a longing to break free from the judgmental strains of small town suburbia and to express ourselves freely through clothes and music.

And then I met Angela. She was my living Janis. My soul sister and kindred spirit had arrived from Oklahoma to my English class. The day I saw her she wore a patchwork sweater and a pouch of crystals around her neck. And then I glanced at her notebook and saw Janis Joplin and Led Zepplin lyrics. I couldn’t talk to her fast enough.

At our first “sleepover” Angela and I stayed up until sunrise talking and reading from a book of questions. I had never felt so connected to anyone. Over time we shared our connection with Janis. For us to join together for a Janis song was an emotional experience and one that few understood. When we went our separate ways to college we would call each other and sing Janis over the phone together. And for many years we would sing together even after years of separation. We were reuniting with Janis just as we were each other.

Later, after the birth of my daughter, Janis became an outlet for me to remember when I was that young girl so full of hope and spirit. I would sing Me and Bobby McGee to my tiny infant and envision the day we would sing it together – hoping that she would find the same joy in the song as I had.

Six years and the birth of a son later I had that day. It was an early fall evening and I was feeling on the verge of frustration with the antics of my offspring. We were driving home from dance practice and I decided I needed to tune them out. (Obviously I’ve let go of mommy guilt issues). Anyway, that’s what I did – with Janis. Just as Angela and I had so many times, I was putting my soul into the songs. When I eased into “la da da la da” I paused. The kids were completely silent and my daughter was humming the tune quietly as she does when she’s memorizing the words to a song. At that moment an overwhelming feeling of connectedness came over me. In some small way I felt that I was still that girl full of hope and spirit – and even if I wasn’t I had children who were. When Me and Bobby McGee ended she asked me to play Mercedes-Benz three times. We sang it together soulfully in our driveway, in the living room and through all the nightly routines. I guess its funny what some of us determine to be life’s defining moments.