The first place I ever felt truly accepted as a queer woman was the floor of Norton 227, my friends’ first-year dorm room. When I felt isolated or confused, I went there, and we analyzed our emotions, what we wanted out of life, what we wanted out of each other. When I felt frustrated, I went there, and we ranted about what we wanted to change and drafted elaborate blueprints of how we would change them. When I felt celebratory, I went there, and we danced around the room, screaming off-tune to our favorite songs.
When people mention the idea of a “found family,” I think about that room—its comfy couch, its textured rug, its people that I love more than I could ever express. College gave me a place to be unabashedly queer and to explore what that means, within myself and with others. So, heading away for the summer in May, I worried about how I would preserve that sense of community and growth throughout my time at home, how I would still find comfort.
What I found was music. One afternoon, missing my Kenyon home, I decided to make a short playlist with exclusively dance songs from LGBTQ+ artists. The first version had 12 songs, and I named it “queer space, queer face: bops.” I liked the idea of explicit representation, making room for queerness in my life in whatever ways I could. I sung along to it in the car on my way to work, played it as I cleaned my room, used it as a small reminder that I was part of a larger, fuller community than I could see.
And so I kept looking for songs. I sought out more queer artists, and the playlist grew to 144 songs and counting, eight hours and 41 minutes straight of some hella not-straightness. I asked my friends for recommendations and I gave them my own, and it united us across miles, a web of connection that started in Norton 227 then spun outwards.
I have too many songs to recommend here, too many lyrics that have made me catch my breath, sharply inhale, lift my hands to the sky and think, someone gets it. If you want my full playlist, this is my shameless self-plug to check it out on my Spotify here. But, for the moments I can outline:
1. “I Know a Place” by MUNA
This song was an original on my playlist, and I’ve never fallen out of love with it. Girl-power band MUNA formed at USC when all three members were undergraduates, and you can tell they have a young, modern spunk, cool girls you would 100% want to “go get drunk on cheap wine” with. “I Know a Place” especially reminds me that I’m not alone and that there’s always a way up, a safe haven to find.
2. “Photos From When We Were Young” by Nana Grizol
My roommate sent me this song in August, along with my fav residents of Norton 227, saying, “This reminded me of you.” The song is a folksy reflection on growing up queer, learning to embrace yourself despite everything, and forming a community as you go. I especially teared up at the line about “finding a family somewhere in the ruins / of the expectations we once knew.” Growth doesn’t have to be one-dimensional or even linear: it can include steps back, confusion, and hurt, but that doesn’t mean you’re not becoming better and creating your own home brick by brick.
3. “Talia” by King Princess
My friend Lia originally mentioned King Princess to me, obsessed with her effortlessly cool aesthetic, atmospheric vocals, and decidedly queer teen writing style. (It makes me sad to know King Princess is only 18. I feel woefully under-accomplished by comparison.) Her song “1950” was one of the first 12 on my playlist, a reckoning of history and hoping for better. “Talia,” though, has stuck with me the longest. It has a smooth groove that’s good for every mood, whether dancing, screaming in the car, or unwinding at the end of a long day. And, in its lines about feeling the ghost of an ex-lover that make explicit nods to queerness, like “I can taste your lipstick,” it neither unfairly glorifies nor overly criticizes queer dating. It just depicts one dynamic story, and I love the weight of its weightlessness, its ownership of only its own narrative.
4. “Fight Like A Girl” by Zolita
I interned for my local Congresswoman this summer, and before every event I attended, I made sure the last song I played was “Fight Like A Girl.” It’s the ultimate feminist, pump-up jam, a truly empowering rallying cry. When you need that extra surge of energy, that reminder of Democratic unity, Zolita is your gal.
5. “Holy” by Pvris
Somehow, this song manages to be both a condemnation of hypocritical, religious attitudes towards queerness and an introspective exploration of what it means to be a broken person who’s still trying to grow. It’s perhaps the most cathartic song I encountered all summer, and I screamed to it more times than I can count, exhausting my lungs. Sometimes, that’s exactly what you need.
6. “Crazy, Classic, Life” by Janelle Monae
Janelle originally appeared in my life last year, actually on the floor of Norton 227, when my now roommate pulled out her phone to play “this amazing album called ‘Dirty Computer.’” Janelle gives absolutely no craps about society’s standards, and she’s there to mess the system up. I could recommend virtually any song from this album—I love them all—but I have a vivid memory of blurring down the highways on my way from Buffalo, where I live, to Washington, D.C., where I was visiting my friends for Pride, playing “Crazy, Classic, Life” at the loudest volume my stereo would crank to. As the green landscape passed by, the wind flaring around my hand, stuck out the window, I felt like I was in Black Mirror’s San Junipero, happy and carefree and ready to make change.
7. “This is Gospel” by Panic! At The Disco
When I saw that Brendon Urie had officially come out as pan in August, I literally squealed, then proceeded to upload virtually every Panic! song I had saved on my phone to my queer bops playlist. As has perhaps become thematic here, its message of reclaiming the hurt that’s been inflicted on you, continuing to fight despite and maybe even because of your brokenness, always gives me hope. And I love comparing Urie’s story to my own, how his public journey of exploring his sexuality provides a model for so many other young, queer creatives.
8. “Wasted Youth” by Fletcher
This song is purely celebratory, perfect for late nights whizzing down the highway when you’re already past curfew and are so glad you stayed alive for this. It’s about creating a home right where you are in whatever way you need, regardless of what other people say, and about bonding in youth and queerness to make the world how you want it to be for your future self.
9. “Battle Cry” by Angel Haze
Angel has gotten a lot of good press this year, all deserved. “Battle Cry” blends the political and the personal perfectly, becoming an anthem about queer community-making. It’s a unifying call, a wondrous appreciation of “all the love that’s here tonight,” all the love that’s always out there for you to find.
10. “14 Year Old Me” by K Anderson
Though this entire song is about never truly figuring yourself out, I always find “14 Year Old Me” strangely comforting. I put so much pressure on myself to pursue every opportunity I can and take rejection hard, never feeling like I’m enough. I especially try to overcompensate for what I view as “failing” parts of my personality or ones I don’t think society takes seriously, like—surprise!—my queerness. But, that’s not truly fair. I don’t need to have everything under control. I may not fall into the perfect love on the timeline I want, or have the exact job I imagine, or even own a breadmaker, but no matter what, I’m “gonna be just… fine.” That small exhale at the end of the song, the realization that we are gonna be just fine is all I’d ever need.
Overall, I can’t express my gratitude to the songs I’ve found for making me feel validated and comfortable in my queerness, even and especially when I’m not with the queer family I have here at Kenyon. Finding that representation and hearing those narratives have helped me better understand my own stories, and I feel connected to so much beyond just myself because of the music, moments, and people I’ve had the privilege of knowing.
Photo Credits: Feature, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10