The Song That Raised Me

The Song That Raised Me

I was nine years old when I first heard “Fast Car” by Tracy Chapman. The song wasn’t playing on the radio, nor did I stumble upon it through a playlist. It was a Sunday afternoon, and my father was cleaning out a box of old cassette tapes in our musty garage. He found one labeled “Road Trip Mix – Summer ’91” and slipped it into the dusty boombox like he was unsealing a memory. As the first melancholic chords hummed through the static, a quiet sort of reverence filled the space. My father paused, closed his eyes, and softly said, “This one got me through a lot.”

At that age, I didn’t understand why a song about a fast car and broken dreams could make a grown man stop mid-task. But I listened.

“You got a fast car / I want a ticket to anywhere…”

Tracy’s voice wasn’t showy. It was real—raw, tired, yearning. There was a simplicity to the melody, but the lyrics painted an entire life. A life of waiting, hoping, surviving. I didn’t have the vocabulary at the time, but something in me stirred. I replayed the tape every day that week, even sneaking it into my backpack and listening during recess with a chunky cassette player I found buried in our attic.

As I grew older, “Fast Car” became more than a song. It became a mirror.

In middle school, while other kids had glossy posters of pop stars and knew all the words to the latest hits, I clung to Tracy Chapman like a life raft. I started digging deeper into her discography—“Talkin’ ‘bout a Revolution,” “Baby Can I Hold You,” “The Promise”—and with each song, I felt like someone had reached into my thoughts and translated them into music. I was a quiet, introspective kid, never the loudest in the room or the first to speak. Tracy's songs told me that wasn’t a flaw. There was power in silence. Strength in vulnerability.

“Fast Car” wasn’t just a song about escape. It was about cycles—the ones we inherit, the ones we try to outrun, and the ones we sometimes repeat despite our best intentions. That realization landed like a thunderclap in high school when my mother lost her job and we had to move in with my aunt for a few months. I watched her work double shifts, trying to keep our heads above water, and suddenly, the line “I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone” made me cry in a way I never had before.

That lyric followed me through college. I played the song during long nights in the library, after heartbreaks, before job interviews, even while walking home in the rain, unsure if I was doing anything right with my life. When the world felt too loud or too complicated, “Fast Car” grounded me. It reminded me of my roots—the dusty garage, my father’s faraway look, my mother’s resilience, and my own quiet hunger for something more.

But it wasn’t just the lyrics or the melody. It was the spirit of the song that raised me. “Fast Car” is the anthem of the underdog. Of those who dream without guarantee. It taught me empathy—how to listen closely, not just to music but to people. It taught me that stories matter, even the quiet ones. Especially the quiet ones.

In a way, that song shaped my worldview. It nudged me toward a career in social work. When I sit with clients who feel stuck or forgotten, I think of that fast car. I think of how everyone is trying to drive away from something—poverty, pain, expectation—and toward a life that might not even exist yet, but feels worth chasing. I don’t romanticize struggle, but I do honor it. That’s something Tracy taught me.

Years later, I played “Fast Car” for my niece, who was only seven at the time. We were in the same garage, now partially converted into a cluttered reading room. I told her, “This song helped me grow up.” She listened quietly, then said, “It sounds a little sad.” I smiled and nodded. “Yeah,” I said, “but it’s a beautiful kind of sad. The kind that helps you understand things.”

She didn’t fully get it. Not yet. But maybe one day she’ll be cleaning out a box, stumble on a song that opens a door inside her, and feel the same quiet awakening I did.

Music has a way of raising us, not with lectures or lessons, but with company. “Fast Car” raised me like an older sibling—guiding without force, offering wisdom wrapped in melody. It gave shape to my inner world before I had the words to describe it. And even now, when the world feels uncertain, I go back to that song and remember who I am, where I came from, and the long, winding road that made me.