Emo music found me during a lunch break of my freshman year of high school when a kid in my percussion class suggested that I listen to a song called “Welcome to the Black Parade” for drumming inspiration. It was 2012, and in a world where Carly Rae Jepsen and Taylor Swift were the pop icons we had at our disposal, I figured I had nothing to lose listening to some grown men in a band called “My Chemical Romance.”

I remember standing still after the song was over, completely in awe of how every inch of the percussion room had been filled with an array of sounds that mixed together so beautifully for five minutes and eleven seconds. I listened to “The Black Parade” album that night without skipping over a single song—a first for me since the 2006 release of the “Cheetah Girls 2” album.

Little did I know that this was the start of my thirteen-year-old self’s descent (or ascent, depending on you look at it) into what would be an obsession with all things Mikey, Bob, Frank, Ray, and Gerard. I couldn’t understand why I liked this band so much—and neither could my friends. But this seemingly random and unabashed love for this music is exactly what drew me to the genre in the first place. I wasn’t listening to this music because it was popular—Lord knows this did nothing to boost my social status. I listened to this music because I liked it, and, more importantly, because I felt connected to the band.

As high school progressed, I began to focus more on the lyrics of the album, which was unusual for me. As a drummer with a unique inability to remember the words to a song, and a singing voice that sounds like Fergie’s 2018 rendition of the National Anthem, I usually focused on the melodic and rhythmic aspects of songs rather than the lyrics. But these angsty lyrics connected with me as a confused teenager and allowed me to be angry and upset, but in a very poetic and musically complex way. This was the first time I had ever turned on a song not knowing how to vocalize how I felt, and then have the exact vocabulary to express my feelings once the song concluded.

This made me feel visible and less isolated—a rarity for me in high school. Attending a predominantly white prep school in the Bronx was daunting, and I felt as though I was traversing through a Venn Diagram with the world’s smallest point of intersection. Being a black girl that preferred “The Vampire Diaries” to “Love and Hip Hop” and only attended basketball games when the band was playing at halftime made finding my niche difficult.

I was an “oreo” compared to the other kids of color who preferred Kendrick Lamar to Lana Del Rey, but “too Bronx” for the white kids who wanted to give a local bodega a 0-star rating on Yelp because they saw cats walking around in the back of the store.

I had the “music taste of a suburban white male from Ohio” to quote one of my friends, and I constantly struggled with this musical identity crisis. Girls like me weren’t allowed to listen to My Chemical Romance, fangirl over Brendon Urie, or quote Fall Out Boy in English essays. Girls like me were only allowed to care about social activism, the Black Lives Matter movement, and instructing my white peers on why I couldn’t wash my hair every day.

Don’t get me wrong, I liked talking about politics, race, and curl patterns—these were genuine interests of mine. But, so was discovering obscure B side songs from MCR albums, spending my babysitting money on Hot Topic apparel, and investing hours of my time decorating sneakers and thrifted flannel shirts with angsty quotes.

The duality of my musical taste and my presentation to the world was something I navigated with pride. It made me different, but different in a way that I chose.

I could not choose to be black at a white and wealthy school, but I could choose to wear band tee shirts, suspenders, and ripped jeans because my favorite band made it look cool. And even though most of the members of MCR are white (we see you, Ray Toro) that didn’t matter to me; I didn’t need them to look like me in order for me to feel connected to their message.

For years people didn’t see the connection between my black skin and white Spotify playlists—and at times, neither did I. It wasn’t until I got to college and was exposed to other genres that I realized how nuanced my relationship with emo music was. Songs like “Welcome to the Black Parade” resonated with me so deeply because they were about survival and finding a way to thrive while being a misfit. I had to survive being in a school that was not built for me, and find a way to thrive in a space that was not intended for me to succeed.

There were times when I had to walk a lonely road, which was the only one that I had ever known (Green Day—“Boulevard of Broken Dreams”), and there were times when I had to tell myself that I was not afraid to keep on living, nor was I afraid to walk this world alone (My Chemical Romance—“Famous Last Words”).

These songs taught me that it was okay to not fit in, and being different was something to celebrate, not bemoan.

When I got to college and met other black and brown kids with drawers full of Hot Topic garb circa 2007, I started to feel more visible—and more importantly, more understood. I didn’t have to explain how A$AP Rocky and All American Rejects were on the same playlist, or why I hauled my black self all the way to Williamsburg for Emo Night parties, after getting a bacon egg and cheese. My peers were doing the same thing, and I found solace in this newfound community of kindred spirits.

Today, I do not play music nearly as intensely as I did in high school, and the “Black Parade” no longer resonates with my life as strongly as it did as an emotional high schooler. But, this album brings about a combination of nostalgia and melancholy feelings that represent the human emotions we experience as we age. I no longer need to blast “I’m Not Okay” from speakers for my peers to notice my discontent, but it is comforting to know that I can always listen to the albums of my adolescent years to feel a sense of familiarity and connection as I navigate through adulthood.