I don’t know why I do what I do. But I do know why it’s worth it.1
It’s the way something created in isolation can somehow whirl its way through the universe and nudge someone else, making them do what they do.
Enter Ava O’Connor—who, hell yes, publishes her Substack as “AOC.”2
Writer, music-lover, chronicler of all the small moments of our American life, the kinds that “no one ever talks about” but everybody knows: the high school parking lot, those pollen-covered early-summer days, the smell of your grandpa’s house upstate.
In reflecting on Somewhere Else, I wanted to see how contagious inspiration could be. So, here’s Ava doing her thing, taking “Do I Seem Okay” and seeing where it takes her.
After All This Time & Space by Ava O’Connor
My parents are high school sweethearts. Well, technically, they’re middle school and elementary school sweethearts, too.
Their relationship is unfathomably long to my generation, and after almost 20 years as their daughter, I’ve deduced that one secret of marriage is leaning into music.
Ever since I was old enough to notice, my parents have played cards and listened to music right around five o’clock on Thursdays through Sundays. They play gin—sometimes with gin and tonics in hand—and I would hear the rumblings of The Lumineers and John Mellencamp from the backyard or down the hall.
It’s a very specific sound that reminds me of their taste in music, best described as nostalgic, small-town, sunset folk rock…which makes sense given that they grew up together in a small town, where they were predisposed to rock and folk music.
Naturally, my own taste has been shaped by theirs, my preferences carrying the feeling of their hometown along with my own. I’ll hear new artists and know that my parents would like them, The 1975, Noah Kahan, Zac Bryan, and Bleachers easily slipping into their long-standing rotation of happy-hour songs.
And, the first time I listened to Do I Seem Okay?, I was instantly sent back to those memories.
My family hates country music. It was never on, never played, never featured in the musical rotation. But slowly, as we moved–from Maine to Boston, then to Florida–southern twangs began to drift out of our speakers as my family drifted further South. DISO has the perfect amount of country-ness, still grounded by its folk sound but carrying a distinct warmth. The strumming feels like something I’ve known for years.
After all this time and space
Do I seem okay?
Sometimes I can’t help but wonder about how my parents have grown together, from kids to teenagers to college kids to professionals to parents. How they have been a unit for so long and have built a life that is unshakably strong, while becoming two very distinct individuals. How have they taken up all this time and space and still come out together?
Listening to it, I don’t hear someone looking back at a past version of themselves. I hear someone trying to stabilize self-evolution through someone else. It’s questioning stagnancy amidst the curse of time.
Someone unsure of where they stand in the world, quietly asking if they’re still held in the same regard, seen in the same light. I hear anxiety begging to be quelled by external affirmation—yet, that validation never comes.
Picked up the pieces that had scattered all across the floor
And rearranged ‘em so they’re stranger than they were before
And then having to move on anyway.
Had I heard Do I Seem Okay? when I was seven, I would have had no clue what the lyrics were saying, only really hearing the insane harmonica solo in the middle. But listening to it feels like wandering into the kitchen and stealing crackers from their plates, my brother stealing the cheese. It sounds like the familiar voices that filled our house every weekend.
Listening to it now, though—with more context, more language, more awareness—I can detect the tension underlying the lyrics, the desperation under the momentum, the instability woven into something that, to the unintentional ear, sounds stable. Yet, it would still fit into that twenty-year-old roster of songs that I have internalized.
Despite its messiness and doubt, the uncertainty of time is beautiful. The world keeps turning, things work out, we grow older, the sun rises, people fail, and relationships change. We truly have no clue what life looks like tomorrow, next month, or in five years.
No indication of whether a moment is monumental or insignificant until twelve years later, when a song transports you back into your childhood.
But I do know one thing: we’re all going to be okay.
No, it’s not the metrics or even the applause. The receiving line after shows is one of my least favorite moments. My therapist and I talk about this all the time.
Let me assure you, these are WAY better than the fundraising emails that other AOC sends me.