Coffee & Jazz at Calvin’s
My soul had never felt so nourished as the melodic tunes of jazz spilled out of the trumpet’s horn effortlessly in waves flooding the room. My abandoned iced caramel latte was slick with condensation, leaving a ring on the table scattered with red and yellow plastic discs. My fellow SoFA peer Grace and I were engaging in a fierce battle of Connect 4; we were locked in as we strategically placed our circles into the grid, each disc bouncing into place with little clicks.
The couch across from us started to pile with people as the rest of the open couches and chairs began to fill. The furniture was randomly yet purposefully placed around the large open room with one distinct divider that didn’t reach the metal ceiling. Most of the seating was accompanied by coffee tables, except for the clusters of chairs people sat on towards the front corners. The curated furniture and the couch’s pillows did not feel as though they were tied to fit a constricting theme, but rather, were as though they might’ve been selected by any one of the people who you began to trickle in. It effortlessly goes together, despite its variety. That’s what Calvin’s Coffee House feels like—if authenticity could be captured into an essence and held within these safe walls.
Grace and I were in some of the more elegant chairs. These were Victorian-like, seamed to swallow us as the waves of music perpetually and cyclically crashed. I closed my eyes, letting the jazz flow through me as I took a deep breath in. Towards the end of the second song, the trumpet player broke out into a solo, followed by enthusiastic clapping and cheers from the crowd. Most were engaged in board games and others were reading or conversing among themselves. I have no idea what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this—and I’m so here for it. Their stage perfectly fit the four musicians, all my age, and was only a few inches off the ground. Yet, its lack of borders transcended the band’s energy, the candles curating ambiance, escaping outside with the laughter that gives Calvin’s Coffee House life.
I decided to read for the rest of the show, though, I often found myself entranced by the jazz band’s music while my mind wandered down its paths, entangled with their trance. I pondered about the hurricanes and what an apocalypse living in Florida has been the last two weeks. The second hurricane was on its way and creeping up on Florida, the excess gusts blown our way left me holding on to my dress for dear life on my walk here. I strongly believe the best way to get out of a funk is to dress up and go to a coffee shop with live jazz. This adventure was also an attempt to begin grappling with an idea I had a few days ago: healing your inner child versus your inner angry teenager. It forced me to acknowledge the fact that I’m no longer an angsty teenager, but in fact, am soon a twenty-one-year-old woman. I was still twenty, but I felt as if the angry teenager inside me still had control.
The jazz music played on, soothing the turmoiled self I still carry with me. But it’s different now. Back home, living in Florida, there was no place for me to gather with people my own age and simply appreciate. If my teenage self saw my day to day, she’d see me chilling at coffee shops, listening to jazz, meeting new people. It would blow her mind
I was living in this liminal void of uncertainty; I couldn’t see what was in front of me, but it was enough to see that something was there, and I’m supposed to be there—but am not. This is what being twenty feels like: Stuck in a Jell-O void. If I’m not an angsty teenager anymore, who am I? Grappling with this question and its colossal uncertainty is terrifying. I thought being a teenager was about figuring out your beliefs, values, configuring an identity, so why does it feel like I must start over? Why do I feel so disconnected to this version of me from just two years ago? Because that’s not me anymore. My life turned upside down in my transition to college and living on my own has had its own monumental alteration to my identity.
Healing my inner child coincided with the spiritual journey I’ve been on the last year (see my war on Birkenstocks under the gaze of that infernal Piggly Wiggly). It’s been calm and peaceful, often bringing moments of clarity and mindfulness. Enjoying the improvisational pulse of the jazz provided me a buffer for my subconscious to meditate on the darker emotions simmering just below my surface. Anger is intense yet freeing, it tells us from our deepest level of intuition that something is wrong, and something needs to change. This angry teenager inside of me wants out, the same teenager punching the tiles in the wall of her shower, lying about the indents in her wooden desk. I still wear these rings every day, despite their dents; two black loops hold three small rings, each a different metal. The gold one is more of a squished oval now. The other two rings conceal it.
I notice rage and self-hatred bubbling up to the surface repeatedly just like in my teenage years. Instead of continually suppressing these feelings, I listened, a temporary observer time traveling within myself. When I listened, I realized what these feelings were truly asking me to do: nurture the angry wounds of my core. Giving yourself the ability to healthily lean into anger is monumental in healing your inner teenager, though it can be scary. I was under society’s spell that the notion of anger is damaging and a clear-as-day issue, when in fact it’s the opposite. Anger is a key component of our humanity; its occupancy as a secondary emotion means that it covers the true root emotion lying beneath. Our inner child is indicative of our core needs and emotions, but our inner teenager is the aspect of ourselves responsible for acting upon those needs and emotions. If we blame our anger and self-sabotage on our inner teenager, we don’t respect or acknowledge their needs, and therefore destroy the bridge to those core wounds. But the bridge can be rebuilt, and that’s what I’ve been doing, one brick at a time.
The jazz music played on, soothing the turmoiled self I still carry with me. But it’s different now. Back home, living in Florida, there was no place for me to gather with people my own age and simply appreciate. If my teenage self saw my day to day, she’d see me chilling at coffee shops, listening to jazz, meeting new people. It would blow her mind, to see that I’ve tried things I’d never tried before. I am grateful for this peace of mind we never suspected we’d arrive at. I gave her a hug, letting her sit alongside my inner child and all the different aspects of identity that cohabitate within me, comprising me. As if there was a magnetic pull, the musicians piled onto the stage after mysteriously emerging from the crowd. They lined up in front of the stage and executed an amazing finale. Two trumpets and one saxophone musician sang on through their instruments, drawing out the last portion of the song with obvious glee. I may be peacefully seated in this elegant chair, calmed by the smooth jazz, but my mind continued tunneling inward.
You may be wondering why I’m getting philosophical about teenage-hood and anger at this very peaceful jazz concert—but isn’t that what jazz is about? No, it’s not. Not necessarily. But it is the moment, and it is being in the moment. It’s a conversation between the musician and the audience. We’re just as much a part of the creative process; our energy is being dealt with on the spot in the present moment. The jazz musicians alongside the audience simultaneously get to express their emotions and explore all elements of the human experience. I cheered with the crowd and clapped loudly for several moments; the energy of jazzical sound, comradery, and self-reflection encased into the walls of Calvin’s Coffee House. The day is another brick added to the bridge.
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Written by Eve Murrdick
Edited by Aidan Little
Graphic Design by Hannah Wood
Editor in Chief - Hope Fell
