A Breakup Letter to Mom and Dad
by Anna Ayres-Brown
Mom and Dad,
We need to talk. When Santa gave me an iPod for Christmas in 2007, I knew the present actually came from you because Dad got a package from Apple in the mail two weeks earlier. The device was a blue third-generation iPod nano, and my friends told me I should have gotten it in pink but I told them blue was more nuanced (whatever the fuck that means). I rushed upstairs to the third-floor desktop computer, plugged in the iPod, entered the username and password to the family iTunes account, and never looked back.
Grandma and Grandpa gave me a $10 gift card, which I used to download “Love Song” by Sara Bareilles and “Psycho Killer” by the Talking Heads. I scrolled through the rest of your iTunes library and chose what to transfer onto my new prized-possession—a little Bruce Springsteen from Dad, a little Stevie Wonder from Mom, and a little Panic! at the Disco from Henry (who got access to the iTunes account two years before I did).
I began carefully constructing playlists in my free time, not knowing that they automatically appeared on your iPods. You received my running playlist, which was more like a walking playlist given that most of the songs were <80 beats per minute. You saw my karaoke playlist (yes, I actually purchased 99-cent instrumental tracks of my favorite songs to practice singing in my free time). Most embarrassingly, you listened through my break-up playlist, which was inspired by Andrew, my fifth grade crush. It didn’t work out because Andrew didn’t have an email account and our recess times didn’t line up, but my playlist helped me through it.
When Henry was a sophomore in high school, he made the split. He got tired of you using his workout playlists and then bragging about how you knew more lyrics to the songs than he did. He became sick of accidentally uploading his voice memos to the shared music library. Above all, he wanted to finally purchase a track that was not marked with the label “CLEAN.” His decision hurt you. I know it did. But it’s time to face it, my departure is long overdue.
This October, my friend Rob texted me a screenshot of his phone’s lock screen. A recent notification alerted him that Ian Ayres had just joined his shared photo stream. Rob sent me a string of follow-up texts:
“So is this u or am I never coming back to your house…?”
“Anna…?”
“Don’t fuck with me now.”
“I’m quivering in my literal boots.”
It wasn’t me. It was you. Mom and Dad, you joined Rob’s photo stream. And no matter how many times you assure me that you didn’t look at the album, no one wants that to happen again. The content of the photos wasn’t even inappropriate—it probably consisted of intoxicated college kids eating post-midnight Ivy Wok—but you don’t want to keep going through life wondering if you’re acting like a helicopter parent. You’re better than that.
Don’t get me wrong. I am grateful for the memories and music we’ve shared. Mom, I’ll miss the Top 12 American Idol cast recordings that would automatically download on my phone after you bought them. Dad, I’ll miss occasionally receiving accidental FaceTime calls from your colleagues. I’ll especially miss the collection of music videos I bought in 6th grade before I realized YouTube existed.
But this is it. It’s time for me to forge my own independent music archive. I must shed your Apple ID. So next time you’re scrolling through iTunes and the Recent Purchases section seems smaller than usual, and you’re wondering what I’m listening to at the moment, call me. Or—let’s be real—just follow me on Spotify.
With gratitude,
Antonia