My Afterglow Moment: A Record Player and A Lie

Every piece of vinyl has its story told by the record player that plays it. I never imagined this was the story I’d get from mine.  

My Afterglow Moment is a series where staff writers and editors share their favorite music-related memories.

Written by Camryn Garza
Photos courtesy of Camryn Garza

I got my first record player, a baby blue Crosley Cruiser, one year before everything in my life changed. We were on a family vacation in San Antonio, and my dad had given my sister and I 100dollars each to buy whatever we wanted. In the store, my sister had hangers full of clothes ready to buy, but the only thing that caught my eye was that record player. I knew I had to have it; I just didn’t know what it would mean to me at the time. I was 12 years old then.

Mom and Dad, 1990s

Growing up, I hated classic rock — not because I didn’t like the sound, but because I didn’t like the way it made me think of my dad. Saying all of this now makes it seem like the relationship I had growing up with my dad was strained. That wasn't the case; in fact, I had the best dad anyone could ever ask for, and I knew it. Writing this, it still sounds awful. I took for granted the time I had with my dad, and knowing this will follow me throughout life. But this fact ultimately allowed me to grow as a person. 

I didn’t like classic rock specifically when it would play on the radio in my dad’s truck. The humming along, the tapping on the steering wheel: it was all a nuisance to me. 

I still don’t know what it was —the fact that I was some little angsty, annoyed preteen, or the fact that despite how amazing of a father he was, I never found myself having a close bond to my dad. I don’t think we can ever be sure of the feelings we have; we just know that they’re there.

Mom and Dad, early 2000s

Back home in Houston, a few months after purchasing my record player, I was back listening to the classic rock station on the way to school. Every day followed a similar pattern. I would wake up, my dad would take me to school, and still the music played. From Led Zeppelin to Rush every classic rock song that faded in and out only added towards my annoyance. It was a routine I thought I was okay with disliking. That is, until I came home one day to find that my dad had recently been to the dentist, and a tumor had been found in his jaw.

A visit to MD Anderson Cancer treatment center, 2013

“Benign,” “easy to treat,” “no, there is no cure, but you will likely go into remission.” I heard it all, and I heard it from everyone. No one tells you growing up just how easy it is to lie when you’re an adult. But lies were all I heard from the moment my parents promised me it was going to be okay to the moment the doctors said he was in remission up until when I found out he passed away unexpectedly 

As a family, we had decided to go on summer vacation to Florida as sort of a celebratory marker for my dad beating cancer. I don't remember every part of this story; all I know is that one early morning my dad went fishing with my uncles, and then, hours later, only my uncles returned to tell me and my sister that we just lost the most vital part of our family. 

Some form of heart failure occurred, brought about as some delayed side effect of the cancer. I'm not sure of specifics; there was no autopsy report, and I didn't ask how it happened. I didn’t care. All that mattered to me was that he was gone, and I could already feel the guilt rising in me about the way I didn’t like his classic rock station in the car.

I can’t exactly pinpoint all the moments I had thought I had been lied to. They all come and go in the waves of memory that I can’t seem to erase, not that I exactly want to. I felt lied to when the people I held closest to me promised me everything was going to be fine. I felt lied to when my dad endured his last round of chemotherapy, a sign of his remission. I felt lied to by myself when I look back at those moments in the car and realize that I didn’t hate classic rock, but I hated what it signified for me — a moment in time where I didn’t feel like I had as close of a relationship to my dad as I thought I should. 

I was 13 years old then, and if I could go back and do it all over, I wouldn’t.

I miss my dad, I miss the classic rock station, and I miss how much he loved music, but I don’t regret our relationship. There is no point in regretting what you can’t change, so long as you can focus on how it can help you evolve. I look back at my moments with my dad every time I open my record player. Whenever I put a new record on, I think of all the ways music now reminds me of him.

I’m 19 now. It’s been five years since I lost my dad. More than that, however, I’ve had five years to grow with the help of the music I once loathed. Lynyrd Skynyrd and Pearl Jam fill my playlist as I now tap along on my steering wheel, remembering my dad. I’d like to think that despite it all, I can grow into the person that I believe my dad would’ve wanted me to be. He would have wanted me to be appreciative of all things, to be independent, and to be myself while keeping in mind the people that got me to where I am today. I love my family, but more importantly I appreciate them and my dad, knowing that without them, I would be nothing.

My dad and me, 2004

He used to tell me that in life you had to “deal with the cards that you’ve been dealt.” I didn’t know what that meant then, but now I find myself saying it, hoping it will make sense out of difficult situations. However, when I see myself now, I see him, and I see how similar we are. I hear the music I listen to, and realize that it is the same music he used to listen to all those years ago. I see myself and think of all the ways I want to be like him. I want to be selfless, and strong, and to never forget that above all, family is everything. I think back to those car rides, to when I got that baby blue Crosley, and I remember all the ways in which my dad and his music molded me into who I am today.