Ten-Year-Old Self with Brianna Johnson

Brianna Johnson’s piece “A Day at the Beauty Supply” opens the door into a world of hair and allows us to wander the aisles, overhear conversations, and dip into consciousnesses, from a girl getting ready for prom to some of the hair itself, “hot pink and glossy with a hint of purple underneath.” As part of celebrating Split Lip’s 10th Anniversary, Brianna shares a memory from when she was ten:

“When I Was 10 I Ran Away to a Place Off Ocean Avenue…

Brianna Johnson with the band Yellowcard

I don’t remember the exact date, but I do remember the time. 2am. It was glowing on the cable box when my life changed. At 10 years old, I often had trouble sleeping. To get through the night I would turn on MTV; early morning was the rare time to see full-length music videos. That night in my dark bedroom I shared with my older sister, I stood at the end of my bed, transfixed by an image on the screen – a God’s eye view of a man face-down on the sidewalk, splayed like a crime scene outline, and surrounded by shattered glass.

A chunky down-up guitar riff filled the air. With the crash of a drum, we were off. The man on the ground was now up and singing about a place off Ocean Avenue. I didn’t know where this place was, but I found myself going there spurred by the propulsive guitars as he ran through empty alleyways. I inched closer to the screen.

Now joined by his bandmates, my heart raced as he burst into the chorus: If I could find you now things would get better/We could leave this town and run forever/Let your waves crash down on me and take me away…. A violin! The sweet notes of the string instrument sang through the crash of drums and guitars. I didn’t know that was allowed.

Before I could fully process what happened, I saw him, the drummer, a Black man with blonde-tipped locs swinging as he slammed away on the kit. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know we could live in that space. While I’d been raised on Prince, to me he was his own genre existing in his singular purple world, but this was different. This type of rock was only for white boys, the dirty kind with bangs and checkered shoes. Black people weren’t supposed to be there. Yet, there he was, the heartbeat of the song.

I scribbled the name of the band in my journal - Yellowcard. The next day, I found the song on AOL Music (YouTube didn’t exist then) and played it endlessly. I bought the CD with my allowance.

Eventually my mom and I went to their shows. Often the only Black faces in the crowd, we felt secure, the presence of the drummer somehow a safety net. Even as the band changed in sound and line up, including the drummer’s departure, my mom and I continued to see them. From concert lines to car ride listening parties, they became a bedrock of our relationship. They were part of us now. By the time Yellowcard called it quits, we’d seen them 13 times.

Yellowcard gave 10-year-old me access to a world I didn’t know I could occupy – a world of mosh pits and Warped Tours, screaming and studded belts. At 29, I now know there is no space my blackness doesn’t belong. 10-year-old-me ran away to Ocean Avenue, and I’ve happily never looked back.”