Fans By: Dominique Davis-Hart It’s only about an hour before then first set goes on. I’ve got my water, a couple granola bars, and my friend. I am content. Soon, though, I’ll be jittery and spastic and twitching to run through the gates that keep us out. Behind those gates stand ticket takers, hole punchers, wristband sticker-on-ers, vendors and security guards who will tell us not to run. Tell us to slow down because we might get hurt in our stampede to the front row. We won’t listen, no one ever does. We’ve been steadfastly waiting behind these gates for six hours. It rained a couple times and it rained hard. Small streams of water flowed through those two random holes in the side of our old, Converse high-tops every time we took a step. At the time of the downpour, there was still five hours before the gates even opened. The strong and dedicated fans like us stayed in line, while the weak ones ran to their cars for shelter. They thought it wouldn’t make a difference, leaving their spots and being twelve or fourteen people back in line when it cleared up, but now the gates are opening, and we are running. We run like Forrest
could apply nor an ice pack to relieve the stinging. Relief was only found in release, something I had come to be embarrassed of. For what strength was there in vulnerability, crying out past the thunder of my shower hoping so desperately that no one would hear? The cure for loneliness is selfconsolidation. I have something to learn, I suppose.
.Artwmkby Alex Tqeda
Fall2014 43
