It was the summer of 1990, and in considering almost half a century of living it may have been my favorite summer thus far. I was fourteen years old and had just finished my freshman year of high school. A group of friends and classmates had been accepted as part of a People-to-People Friendship Exchange with what was then the Soviet Union, and we were actively preparing for the three-week jaunt halfway around the world.
Madonna’s ‘I’m Breathless’ album was my musical obsession at the time, combining a love of Madonna with a love of Stephen Sondheim, and culminating with the majestic ‘Vogue’ (which was all Shep Pettibone, no Sondheim for that). Despite this aural treasure-trove, I decided against bringing a walk-man to the Soviet Union because I didn’t want to be distracted or taken out of the moment by music. Seems strange and more than slightly stupid, something I realized soon enough when I was sitting on the floor of JFK Airport on a 6-hour layover with nothing to do.
Suzie came to the rescue and let me listen to her music, which included what is now a summer classic playlist: the soundtrack to ‘The Mighty Quinn’. So yes, we have Suzie to thank for how reggae music came to shade that Soviet Union trip, as well as every summer thereafter.
My favorite cut was the second track, ‘Groove Master’, whose groovy horn bombast and electronic drum tempest set the celebratory tone for the first trip I was taking without my family. I think the fact that Suzie and her Dad were going eliminated the worry I would have otherwise had, but that first night in Washington, DC was still a little lonely.
The next day, I found my own groove with friends, quickly establishing connections that immediately dissolved any lingering loneliness or homesickness. Young people are surprisingly adaptable, even when we think we aren’t. It’s a sort of stupid strength, in the sense that we’re not really aware of it or its power – in the same way that itís easier for kids to pick up a new language instead of adults. (I have absolutely no more brain cells to learn anything new.) Back then, I could have a scary night and bounce back at the break of the next day, instantly forgetting the darkness that came before. The darkness doesn’t dissipate as quickly when you get older, partly because the troubles are more difficult.
In the summer of 1990, however, the only trouble was whether Iíd get caught sneaking out of the girls’ room at midnight. One haplessly envious guy asked me if I ever slept in my own room, hinting at a certain jealousy of the access I had to the inner sanctum of the girls he only admired from afar. On a certain level, my gayness, though unacknowledged and unrealized by myself more than anyone else, provided a sense of safety for girls, who spilled their secrets and tea to me because I was never a threat in the way that straight guys might have been. And girls would prove to be my best friends, starting with Suzie, whose shared summer memories went way back to when she shared her grape taffy with me beneath a grape arbor.
We started that trip in Washington, DC, right around the 4th of July and all its accompanying festivities. We had to learn the basics of America before becoming ambassadors to another country, and in the heat of high summer, backed by ‘The Mighty Quinn’ soundtrack, a set of new memories was being forged. When summer melds happy memories with happy music, it’s a gift that lasts as long as our minds allow it.
