There Is A Light That Never Goes Out

When I was a sophomore in high school, I hated my English class. My teacher was young and cool and didn't wear those sad black clogs that so many of the others did, but I still hated it. Each week we would have quizzes on different Latin roots, and very rarely was I valiant or victorious, and I certainly didn't greet those "beneficial" words with benevolence. And what's worse, we had to read Romeo and Juliet from old yellow textbooks that smelled of wilted cabbage and glue. It wasn't very romantic.

And then one day we got to the poetry section of our textbooks. And to be relevant to our class, my teacher made the astute observation that music is like poetry, and that for our first assignment, we were to take one of our favorite songs and analyze it for the class.

I had to do this once before in the eighth grade for my humanities class; it didn't go over well. "Seven Nation Army" by the White Stripes was apparently a bit inaccessible; all my teacher could say at the end was "Wow, that bass part is like a mantra." She was a lesbian and enjoyed eastern philosophy and fair trade coffee. No one else knew what that meant. But I also choreographed a dance to Pink Floyd's "Money," so I don't know why my classmates were so surprised at my musical selection.

Anyway, I wanted this one to be better. But, given my 15 year old status, my musical repertoire certainly was limited. I raced home and poured through my CD collection. The Beatles were too typical, Led Zeppelin were too sexy, and Green Day were too stupid. I tried to listen to the radio for help, but wasn't fond of anything there, either. It was all about "fucked" in all of its forms: getting, being (+ "up").

And then, for whatever reason, I picked up The Smiths. I'd never particularly cared for them; Morrissey always seemed a bit self-absorbed for my tastes. And anyway, he was just another annoying vegetarian. But then I started to listen to some of the lyrics, and things began to make sense.



It was my turn to go next. Katie had just finished presenting Shania Twain's simultaneously empowering and demeaning hit, "I Feel Like a Woman," and it went really well with the class. My teacher liked how Katie used poetic devices in her explanation of the song, but told her that just because Shania said she felt "like" a woman doesn't mean that it is a simile. But she clapped anyway and drew a red check plus next to her name. "Savannah," she said, "you're up."

My hands were shaking as I smoothed my pants and retied my pale yellow ribbon belt. I adjusted my pearls. "Hello," I said (why did I say that?), "I will be playing The Smiths' 'There Is A Light That Never Goes Out.'"

And I played all four minutes and five seconds of it. Images began to swirl about in my mind as Morrissey's voice entered my ears, and I remembered my first date when a boy, an older boy, came to my house in his car (and not just any car, but a yellow Xterra), and took me with him to see a comedy show. I remembered how I laughed at things I didn't think were funny, just because from the corner of my eye, I could see his teeth glittering like jewels as the comedian told jokes about penises. And it worked; after it was over he hugged my shoulder, the "C" his hand made fit my shoulder perfectly. He said it looked like I had a good time, we should do it again soon.

(We should do it again soon!)

And then on the next date, we went to eat and then to his older friend's house in his car, and I squinted my eyes so all of the street lights would become soft and fuzzy and round like when you look into a kaleidoscope. And I smiled brightly because I felt like I was in a dream. He was a boy who was smart and funny attractive and older than me and he liked me! Me, the girl who, after he came over to the house for the first time, had to blow dry the forest green pit stains out from her lime green shirt. And besides, he was playing Radiohead in the car. I felt like a woman.

"Driving in your car, I never never want to go home"

We got to the house before everyone else did, and all was dark in the car. We sat in an anxious silence; my heartbeat was faster than that of a jackhammer and I knew he had to hear it. But then he turned on "Farmhouse" by Phish. I couldn't move, I couldn't speak, so I just breathed his scent. He smoked cloves and I thought that was exotic. And I looked at his eyes; they reminded me of the green traffic lights I saw when I squinted. And more than anything, I wanted to "Go!" but I couldn't.

"Oh God, my chance has come at last (but then a strange fear gripped me and I just couldn't ask)"

The guitar solo was halfway finished; I knew I had to move soon. But all of a sudden, two headlights illuminated us, and they never went out. His friends were here. And I looked down to my hands in disappointment, and saw his resting nervously atop mine. I didn't feel their weight until now. Scared, and growing brighter and brighter by the minute, I withdrew them. "I guess we'd better go now," I said.

The song was over.

My classmates didn't notice that the song had finished. No one said anything. They didn't know the words, and they were completely bored. Paul began to play on his Nokia. And I was offended--they weren't disrespecting me, they were pissing on Morrissey and my memories. I couldn't stand it; my cheeks grew hot and pink with impatience and I thought about my sweaty and paralyzed hands, and how stupid I felt after I tried to get close to him at the Belle & Sebastian concert when they played "Dress Up In You." He thought they were weird; I thought they were delightfully absurd. I thought about how, even after being tossed aside, his eyes were still more vibrant and vivacious than a green light that would never never go out, no matter how badly I wanted them to turn ugly and red. I would always remember Phish, and cloves and the sparkle of his teeth as they danced in a smoky blue haze, and most importantly, for the first time (not necessarily because of him), I felt alive and sexy and free.

"There is a light and it never goes out
There is a light and it never goes out
There is a light and it never goes out"

My teacher asked if I was OK. Luke was copying his neighbor's Algebra II homework, and Paul had begun to flirt with Julie. Clay asked for the bathroom pass. They all seemed OK. I shook my head.

"I may not know many things, but if after listening to this song and these words, you decide to keep playing 'Snake' on your phone, you're not human."

I stared at Paul. He wasn't listening to me; Julie was massaging his fat shoulders with her small hands. They reminded me of dung beetles feeding on elephant feces.

"You people are all going to be happy, and it's not fair."

Paul closed his simple brown eyes and rolled his head back onto Julie's desk. She kept eating his shit up.

I lost it.

"You don't care about anything; not words, not love, not poetry, so you don't deserve any of it. I'm not going to explain this song to you because you'll never understand."

I didn't receive a check plus.

I took the bathroom pass from Clay, and ran out of the room. Then I took off my pearls. I stopped listening to Radiohead, and started reading real poetry. I also promised myself I would never smoke again. Later that day, I listened to my copy of "Farmhouse" and cried, and then I threw it away. Tried to throw away my memories too, but I couldn't. But why would I want to, anyway?

"There is a light and it never goes out."