Come As You Are
Written by Gabrielle Sorge
I don’t know about you, but my early twenties could be defined by a few cringe-worthy bullet points:
Identifying which bars had the cheapest drinks, working multiple jobs only to get my debit card declined at the grocery store, recklessly falling in love and letting it consume me, living in thrifted sweaters and self-cut bangs, and of course, attending as many grimey house shows as possible.
It didn’t matter what kind of music would be playing. In fact, most often I had no idea what kind of vibe I’d be immersed in. All I knew was that being in a smelly, sweaty, crowded place filled with people bobbing their heads to whatever I was bobbing mine to felt a lot like belonging.
I sniffed out house shows of every kind. A symphony of misfits pooling together in odd spaces to bet on the most obscure bands. There was the apartment above the sandwich shop on Cherry Street or the one above the mechanic space by the townie bar. Later I’d frequent the house with the shaky living room floor and a staircase with the best (and only) view if you were under 5 '4 ". Once, and only once, it was the basement enveloped in armpit stink and mildew, guarded by a hand-written note scotch taped to the door saying: “BYOB…$1.00 PBR…ASK JOE.”
I remember it feeling vital and easy for me to show up. Fueled by what was being asked of me--support and love for creatives throwing spaghetti at the wall-- I saw value in the simple act of holding space. I had no idea that this would be a training ground for a means of connection that I would return to several years and a whole pandemic later.
When I moved to Charlotte in June of 2023, I was searching for something I didn’t have a name for. At one point, I thought it was a career. At another point, I thought it was freedom from the perceived expectations of who I should be. As time went on, I realized that I was simply searching for a way to return to the tried and true ways of being in connection—a familiar way of being.
Amidst this discovery, the term “third space” continued to surface sporadically yet loudly. A third space, a place outside of your home (first place) and your work (second place), turns out to be a missing but vital piece to our ever-evolving sense of what “community” means.
“A third place is a place where people are not required to be anything other than who they are.”
—Ray Oldenburg
When I found myself in a new city, away from all of the familiar places I’d frequent back home, I felt deeply ungrounded and alone. Having uprooted myself, I felt naked and vulnerable as if I was learning to be myself for the first time. I didn’t have the anchors that allowed me to simply exist—to effortlessly be who I was. All the while, right outside of my bedroom door, a new pool of bets was being made on a simple idea: Let’s invite artists into our home, give them a safe space to share, and see what happens.
Only three months later, I find myself back to a sense of self that I thought I’d lost. Over 15 artists have sat themselves on our living room couch and bravely shed light on the innermost parts of themselves. Our cozy couch has traveled to a coffee shop where over 40 people gathered to hear what artists right here in our community have felt, seen, heard, wondered.
We’re creating a floating “third space”, a revitalized way of being with one another. The best part is that all any of us have to do is show up just as we are, bob our heads to the same songs, and thank each other for being here.
Thank you for being here.