S.P.R.K.L.

Welcome to our third annual Unplug & Elevate Summer Playlist!  We are so excited to once again share the songs that have resonated with us throughout the year - and, in some cases, throughout our lives.  

We noticed something different in our playlists this year.  In a year marked by monumental shifts across the globe, we found more soulfulness in place of playfulness, more rage in place of rest, and more points of connection across musical genres - all speaking to the times in which we are living.  Each hand picked song is lovingly shared to remind us that these are the moments when good bras show up—to support, uplift, and empower their broader community.

Enjoy our A Side: Unplug and B Side: Elevate playlists all summer - and beyond!

Elevate, The BRA Definition: Engaging in values-based actions as we actively pursue our dreams with joy.  It Feels Like Summer, and baby, We’re Ready to Go! If you get lost Running with the Wolves down every Rivers and Roads, don’t worry, Help is On the Way because It Ain’t Over Till it’s Over.

Enjoy!

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Only my closest friends know that my Starbucks name is Sparkles. Too many times, other Megans have taken my lattes, but Sparkles always gets her coffee hot and served with a smile.

When I was in fifth grade, I found an outfit at the mall that spoke to me so directly that I literally dreamed about it. At the end of winter break, I took all of my Christmas and birthday money and bought a pair of yellow pants with black and red plaid stripes and suspenders. When the first Monday in January rolled around, I strutted to my front-row seat in Mr. Terrell's classroom, only to hear the giggle and  snickers of my classmates. My stomach sank, and I wanted to hide for the rest of the day. It was another reminder of how I didn't fit in—how the things that spoke to me didn't resonate with the people around me, leaving me with a growing sense of isolation.

My little fifth-grade heart longed for junior high, where surely my best friend was waiting for me. Poor kid. Junior high—and the influx of students from the southwestern part of Marion County—did not provide the best friend or sense of belonging that I ached for.

Years later, I was shocked when an elementary school photo of me in my beloved yellow plaid pants surfaced in a Facebook group. I only remember wearing those pants once, but I must have gotten brave enough to wear them again at the end of the school year for that photo. I like that kid. She's the part of me that identified more with Gonzo the Great than Miss Piggy. She somehow knew she wasn't going to fit in, and that it wasn't going to be comfortable.

I still love plaid pants. In my twenties, I found a groovy pair of golf pants at a thrift store and wore them to a terrible call-center job as a small act of rebellion. As I walked from the Brown Line to the West Loop office, two giggling tourists yelled from across the street, "Nice pantaloons!" Suddenly, I forgot about my symbolic rebellion and transported right back to fifth grade—the judgment, the isolation, the wishing I could fit in and have the fashionable clothes everyone else seemed to wear, or maybe just an invisibility cloak.

Elementary-school me is a kid I think about a lot when Pride Month rolls around. A part of me knew I was different, and I believed that difference wasn't okay. Those early experiences of bullying were painful. Yet, in my small Ohio town, those experiences were much, much worse for kids whose differences were more visible than my quirky sense of style.

Each time I'm invited to march in a Pride parade with my church or watch one with friends, I think about Matthew Shepard, the trans adults I am proud to know, the Pulse Nightclub, and all the young people struggling to make it through the realization that they don't fit in either.

I am often reminded that middle school is so awful for kids that adults tend to fully block out our memories from that time of life. My yellow plaid pants were just a little taste of the bullying that would take place when I got to seventh and eight grade. As an adult, I work hard to acknowledge and comfort those younger, more insecure parts of myself. One way I do that is by noticing moments when I feel safe in community. I have to wake that part of me up and say, "Do you feel that? Those are your friends. You made it. See this cool thing we're doing?"  I recall feeling this at concerts with dear friends and on dance floors of gay bars throughout my twenties and thirties. Finding a community that fit felt every bit as good as trying on those plaid pants for the first time.

That's where this song comes in. Through the magic of streaming music, "SPRKL" dropped into my feed. When I saw that the artist was Flamy Grant—a drag queen, singer-songwriter, and outspoken Christian—I knew this song was destined to become my anthem. Her website holds a testimony that says “Flamy is brilliant, resilient proof that nothing is sacred (but everything is holy) — and shame belongs in the closet.”  Sparkles has been my Starbucks name for more than a decade, and it's a nod to my fifth-grade self.

Because during this Pride Month, it feels more important than ever to remind myself—and anyone carrying an insecure part of themselves—that it's time to Stay Proud, Radiate, and Keep Laughing.

The other weekend, the BRAs threw a dance party on a Saturday night at a reasonable hour because we all had shit things to do on Sunday. The party was a blast, but it took a while for the room to transform from a middle-school wallflower convention into a raucous, jam-packed dance floor. We all felt awkward, waiting for the critical mass of dancers to arrive.

Then something magical happened. The right number of women, the right song, and suddenly everyone hit the floor screaming, laughing, singing, and dancing. The shame and insecurity vanished. Finally, the party had started.

As the evening wore on, I noticed that each of the BRAs had taken off her shoes, the way one does in a holy space. The emotion we experienced and witnessed that evening felt holy. It reminded me of countless other safe spaces where people gather to sparkle.

Fifth-grade me was fully present that evening—surrounded by friends, caring strangers, and damn good music.

The little girl in the plaid pants spent years trying to find somewhere to belong. Sparkles knows something different. Belonging isn't found by hiding the parts of ourselves that stand out; it's found when we bring them into the light and discover we're not dancing alone.

Sparkles didn’t wear her plaid pants that night. Instead, she wore a tulle skirt that floated when she spun in circles.  She felt beautiful dancing with a room of dear friends and strangers.  

 Call to Action: Where are the spaces you Sparkle?