It is a crisp October morning. As I walk briskly down the cobblestones, the cool wind brushes against my face and the early sunlight warms my rosey cheeks. I am shivering, unsure whether it’s a product of the cold, my nerves, or a combination of the two. It has finally come: The day I get to meet the man who raised me through his music, Bruce “The Boss” Springsteen.
It’s 8:05 a.m. and the line already weaves around one corner and then another, stretching halfway up the block ahead. An ignorant passerby might wonder what on Earth could possibly attract so many eager line-waiters so early in the morning. But for us, the Harvard Coop’s book-signing event for Springsteen’s autobiography, “Born to Run,” is an opportunity to meet, even for a mere 15 seconds, the man who supported us through life’s highs and lows.
Policemen and security guards direct me to the end of the line. To my left stands a woman, about 5’2’’ with heels on, using a pocket mirror to apply—or reapply—her dark red lipstick; to my right, a mom, dad, and their daughter huddle together to conserve body heat.
I am only 19 years old, and that, unfortunately, means I did not get the chance to witness Bruce Springsteen’s ascension to stardom firsthand. However, I was lucky enough to have a father who did—a father who, for 19 years, has been telling me stories about how he and his friends would listen to “Greeting from Asbury Park” on their old record player so many times that it wore out and they needed to buy it over and over again. Some may call it a strange obsession, but I call it an acquired characteristic—one that my dad has thankfully passed down to me.
My dad is the type of dad who used to cover up the dashboard screen in his car and test me on who was singing in an effort to teach me to differentiate between his favorite classic rock bands. This began as soon as I was old enough to remember to brush my teeth in the morning, and lasted until I started getting practically every single song, artist, and album name correct. Any Bruce song was obviously a no-brainer. Even with my friends in the car, we sang along to Sirius XM’s E Street Radio, and if anyone dared to complain or try to change the station, we would look at each other with a smile and turn the volume up even louder.
Holidays, birthdays and other family gatherings became excuses for us to show off our talent. My dad would play Bruce in every room of the house, and we would sing karaoke-style into scrapers and pie cutters while dancing around the kitchen table. I watched him closely and learned how to work the speaker system myself—not such an easy task for an eight-year-old—so that when I came home from school to an empty house, I could play “Mary’s Place” and “Dancing in the Dark” as I jumped from couch to couch, bed to bed.
When I was about 10 years old, my dad took me to see Bruce for the first time. Overwhelmed with excitement, I made a sign to hold above my head that read “First Bruce concert” with an arrow pointing down. Determined to catch Bruce’s eye, my dad lifted me onto his shoulders, holding my legs tightly to keep me from falling off. In the middle of “Thunder Road,” amid the singing and the dancing, Springsteen turned our direction, and I watched his eyes graze my small, white sign. All of a sudden, he smiled, nodded, and pointed his finger right at me. Overwhelmed by the thrill and emotion, I immediately burst into tears.
Since that day, my obsession has only grown stronger. The older I get, the more I can understand why my dad, and my dad’s generation, were so shaped by Bruce and his music. Behind the words I’ve grown up mindlessly singing lie hidden messages of peace, love and hope. Listening to “The Rising,” Springsteen’s 2002 album, with my dad, I can imagine how his words uplifted the spirits of those affected by the 9/11 terrorist attacks. My dad vividly remembers watching Bruce perform an acoustic version of “My City of Ruins” on a televised benefit concert about a week after 9/11 while cooking dinner with my mom.
Some of my friends don’t get it. They see my passion for Bruce as bizarre and outdated. They question why I listen to “Rosalita” while I study, why I sacrificed a Wednesday night to go to some concert, and why I refreshed my page for 15 minutes straight in order to guarantee myself the meet-and-greet tickets. Few understand the impact Bruce’s music has had on my relationship with my dad. However, some friends do get it. I’ve made connections with other dedicated Bruce fans on campus who have similar stories of jamming to E Street Radio in the car, attending concerts with their parents, and falling in love with his music and his message. At Gillette Stadium last month, my “Bruce friends” and I stayed standing for four hours straight while Bruce performed the last concert of The River Tour.
As I stand in line to receive my pre-signed book and have my picture taken with Bruce, my dad is living vicariously through me. He FaceTimes me every 10 minutes as I’m waiting, each time asking what I’m going to say to his idol. Tell him this, tell him that. I get the chills just thinking about those 15 seconds.
As I’m waiting, the dad waiting in line next to me looks over.
“Big Bruce fan?” he asks, as his daughter, arms wrapped around his waist, looks up at me and awaits my reply.
“Yeah,” I say with a proud smile. “My dad got me into him.”
