second round game
(1) Celine Dion, “My Heart Will Go On”
TUNED OUT
(8) REM, “Country Feedback”
217-195
AND WILL PLAY IN THE SWEET 16
Read the essays, listen to the songs, and vote. Winner is the song/essay with the most votes at the end of the game. If there is a tie, we will play a one-hour overtime (and repeat until we have a winner). Polls close @ 9am Arizona time on 3/12/26.
“Far Across the Distance”: melissa fite johnson on Experiencing “My Heart Will Go On” Then and Now
On a recent walk with my husband, we talked about nostalgia—why it’s powerful, how we each define it. In particular, I was processing why I often feel nostalgic for incredibly painful moments in my life, which feels especially strange since I’m so much happier now. I don’t wish to go back—at least not literally, if time travel were a thing. But I love keeping journals. I love documenting and reflecting and considering how I got here, wherever here is. And sad memories are often the most defining ones. Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” is a portal to the worst few months of my life. It’s also one of my favorite songs. Both things are true at once.
In 1998, I saw Titanic twice in the theater. The first time was in late January, when the film finally came to the theater in my small Kansas town. In my journal from that year, I called the process of standing in line for hours to buy tickets with my friends “an adventure,” complete with elaborate plans to buy tickets to Spice World and switch theaters if it sold out. We made a whole evening of it—dinner at the Mall Deli, trying on dresses at Maurices, stuffing tickets from arcade games into our purses. Then we had to stand in line again to get good seats—there were twelve of us, and we took up a whole row. Even though we knew the movie would be heartbreaking, we were wild with excitement. We’d come prepared with travel tissue packs; we were looking forward to crying through Titanic the way we’d looked forward to shrieking through Scream and I Know What You Did Last Summer. Secondhand emotions, so satisfying and safe. We were young and invincible. Nothing could touch us.
The second time was in mid-March with my new boyfriend. In my journal, I wrote that Titanic “was actually sadder the second time around. It was nice to sit next to [him]—he stroked my arm until I felt better.” He and I were together for only two weeks, and later he told his friends we’d only been hanging out, not going out. He didn’t know why I thought it was more than it was, even though we went much farther sexually than I was ready for. In my journal, I wrote, “We hung out in his room. We talked a lot, which was nice. Then we did some things—I can’t quite decide if I should view them as being shameful or beautiful.” It wasn’t pressure so much as praise that lowered my defenses. Because of Titanic and movies like it, I believed in love that took only a few days to bloom. I wasn’t wary of grand statements like “Rose, you’re the most amazingly astounding, wonderful girl—woman—that I’ve ever known.” When this boy told me I was beautiful and that he’d wanted to kiss me for a long time, I’d been waiting my whole life to hear something like that. I was ready to open myself to whoever said it first. After he broke up with me, he told his friends he’d only hung around me because I was stupid and easy and had big breasts.
And then on April 3, my father died, an event that should be unrelated to that boy and Titanic, but it all feels like one memory. One soundtrack—“Near, far, wherever you are,” a lyric that meant a lot because I wasn’t sure about religion or heaven. One regret, that I’d wasted the last weeks of my father’s life pinned beneath this boy who thought so little of me. When I try to conjure that time—relive it more than remember it—I am walking the halls of my high school, wearing an oversized hoodie so no one can see my body, hoping no one brings up my father because I can’t talk about him without crying. I am sixteen.
In a late 90s talk show appearance, Celine Dion addressed her tendency to beat her chest with her own fist at the climax of her songs: “When I sing sometimes, I get emotional and I hit myself—I don’t know why! I don’t know why I do that.” She hit herself especially hard during her Oscars performance, spooking her heart of the ocean necklace right off her chest. I watched that moment in my childhood living room with my dad less than two weeks before he died.
I’ve been thinking a lot about that—emotion and violence, emotion and pain. I am trying to understand why I love a song that I so associate with the end of my father’s life and the worst few months of mine. It’s nice to remember him, and maybe that’s all it is. That’s such a simple, normal explanation. But maybe I’m still the girl who finds a strange pleasure in sadness, even when it’s real, even when it transcends a radio or screen. Don’t all of us sometimes put on an album or movie expressly because we know it will make us cry? Don’t we read through old journal entries documenting our most gut-wrenching memories? We know it will hurt, but the hurting reminds us we’re still here.
In my journal, I wrote, “That night, at home, Dad began complaining that he was having trouble breathing. After a while he asked me to call 911. An ambulance came and they took Daddy to the hospital. He was crying and they gave him oxygen and it was horrible. In the ER they said they thought he’d had a heart attack.”
He didn’t die that night. I took Mom’s car and got McDonald’s for her and me, and we ate it in the hospital waiting room. He died two nights later, after being moved from ICU to a regular room. Since he seemed to be doing better, I took a break from the hospital to go to the movies with my friends.
In my journal, I wrote, “When I left he’d been having a little trouble breathing, but he said he’d be OK. I kissed his forehead, told him I loved him, and I never saw him again.”
My friends and I didn’t see Titanic the night my father died, though it was still playing, of course. It played in theaters for nearly ten months. It’s hard to explain to my students, who are the age I was when it came out, how much of a phenomenon both the film and the song were. Halfway through 1998, “My Heart Will Go On” was already considered the most played song of the year. In this era of streaming movies at home and everyone making their own playlists, it feels to me like there aren’t as many unifying pop culture touchstones, the things that will remind everyone in the same age bracket of a certain winter or spring.
Maybe to test this theory, I asked a few students what they consider their generation’s version of “My Heart Will Go On,” their version of Titanic. Their answers were fantastic but totally varied, which makes me think there really isn’t a contemporary equivalent. For songs, they brought up My Chemical Romance and Billie Eilish, both of which feel appropriately dramatic, and one student suggested Adele, which I think speaks to a respect for Celine Dion’s powerhouse voice. For films, they mentioned Downton Abbey for its attention to class systems, the Bollywood movie Saiyaara for its love story, and Pirates of the Caribbean “because it’s ocean related.”
I also asked my students whether they thought Titanic and “My Heart Will Go On” were more romantic or sad, and they were all torn. One student called them “sad but cute”; another, “romantic with a hint of sadness.” Finally, someone found the word “bittersweet,” which might capture the spirit best of all.
Last summer, I was surprised that “My Heart Will Go On” wasn’t on the longlist of options for this tournament because it was considered more romantic than sad. I’d thought of the song as sad for so long, it was hard to think of it as anything else. However, it’s true that the first image that opening flute solo prompts—universally, I think, though usually I speak only for myself—is undeniably romantic: Jack and Rose on the bow of the ship, homecoming dance pose, his hands on her stomach, her hands covering his, her engagement ring from another man glinting in the sunlight, their faces close in anticipation of their first kiss. But it’s also true that the song makes me cry every time I hear it.
As I’m always telling my students, two things can be true at once. In another favorite romantic movie of mine, Before Sunset, Ethan Hawke’s character discusses an idea for his next novel: “I’ve always wanted to write a book where the whole thing happens within the space of one pop song.” He describes a scene from his would-be protagonist’s life, where his young daughter is dancing to a song on a table, and then a scene from his past, where his first love climbs onto his parked car and dances to the same song. The protagonist somehow understands that he is not merely being reminded of the past; he is there, and he is also in the present with his daughter. He is living both moments simultaneously.
I married a man who also saw Titanic more than once in the theater—a different theater, in a town not so far from mine. He held some other girl’s hand. Knowing him, he wasn’t dreaming of her or me or anyone to complete his life. He was already firmly himself; he loved pro wrestling and sketch comedy and alternative rock. He wasn’t an obvious romantic. Even so, he fell in love with the movie, and with “My Heart Will Go On,” as much as I did. And though he’s hilarious and sarcastic, there is nothing ironic about his love for these things. There’s a story his cousin loves to tell about how he got drunk one night and insisted she drive him to Walmart so he could buy the Titanic soundtrack, a double cassette. In the morning, his roommates played it to coax him awake, and he refused to be embarrassed. He stood by it, then and now.
My husband and I didn’t know each other when the movie came out, or when that song poured from every teenager’s car radio. But the fact that we both loved them fervently when we were young has informed our relationship since it began in 2003. He and I once waited to leave a hotel room one morning, for wherever we needed to be, because the end of Titanic was playing on cable. We’ve seen the movie together in the theater twice—in 2012, for the 100th anniversary of the ship’s sinking, and in 2023, for our local theater’s tradition of luring in our generation with beloved movies from our youth. We’ve been to three Titanic exhibits—two at Union Station in Kansas City, and the Titanic Museum Attraction in Branson, MO. And we’ve seen Celine Dion in concert; our sole reason for going was to hear “My Heart Will Go On.” Celine did not disappoint. She came out dressed as an iceberg, billowing white layers everywhere. My husband and I clutched each other and sang. We were both crying, but we were so happy. We couldn’t believe how lucky we felt not to know such sadness anymore. So maybe it’s true, the song is more romantic than sad—or at least maybe it’s finally true, true now as I’d wished it were then.
Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” is a time capsule of an incredibly sad time for me, but it isn’t only that. The story of my life does take place during the length of one pop song—this pop song. When I hear it, there are two of me, “far across the distance and spaces between us.” Two of me existing at once. I am walking my high school halls in an oversized hoodie, devastated and aching for my father. And I am beside my husband in the theater, final credits rolling. He and I turn to each other, not sure how embarrassed we should be by our red eyes and wet cheeks, this song soaring almost ridiculously behind us.
Melissa Fite Johnson is the author of three poetry collections, most recently Midlife Abecedarian (Riot in Your Throat, 2024). Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Ploughshares, Pleiades, Southern Review, HAD, Ilanot Review, Poet Lore, DIAGRAM, and elsewhere, and has received a special mention for the Pushcart Prize. Melissa, a high school English teacher, is a poetry editor for The Weight Journal for high school students. She and her husband live with their dogs in Lawrence, KS.
jeremy bennett on rem’s “country feedback”
These clothes don’t fit us right
I was the richest poor kid you’d ever meet. My parents were teenagers when I was born and struggled to make ends meet. We lived in public housing the first time I broke my arm. There was a change jar on the kitchen counter and once a month my mom would empty it out and count out just enough money to order a pizza from Domino’s. My clothes were mostly hand-me-downs from older cousins and uncles. I suppose I got so used to wearing other people’s shirts that when I was in high school it felt natural to do my shopping at the local Goodwill. It didn’t hurt that Kurt Cobain was on the cover of Rolling Stone in an oversized green cardigan.
My dad worked for a vending company repairing cigarette machines and coin-op games in bars. In the summer, he’d take me with him and the afternoon drunks would give me quarters to play Pac-Man. Smoking and drinking didn’t seem too dangerous when you were busy being chased by ghosts. He came home one day with a pinball machine that needed extra repairs—and once he fixed it it stayed and I barely noticed his trips to the bar were becoming increasingly after hours. Eventually, a pool table followed. And then a jukebox. Our basement was becoming my personal arcade.
You come to me with a bone in your hand
My introduction to R.E.M. came from that jukebox. I was 12 years old when I pushed C22 and “It’s The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)” dropped onto the platter. I wore that 45 out. I even knew most of the lyrics. A year later I got a cassette of Green for Christmas. My dad listened to Little River Band and The Guess Who and The Doobie Brothers. R.E.M were easily the weirdest band on our jukebox. They were also the only band that I can remember that was mine that my dad seemed to like. But by the time Out of Time arrived three years later, we weren’t talking and I wasn’t listening to R.E.M.
1991 was the year grunge broke. As a 16-year-old with an alcoholic father what do I need to say—this was my scene. Michael Stipe and the guys had got me here, but there was no way a song about holding hands was gonna win out over a song that I share a name with about a boy who was having trouble at home and school. Nine out of 10 kids prefer “Jeremy” to “Shiny Happy People.”
There were real breakdowns, but also fake ones. I tried everything to get through. There were times when promises of quitting and rehab were offered. Nothing stuck. We were two people revolving around each other—neither of us existed in the house at the same time. And when we did it was war. It was the end of the world as I knew it and I didn’t feel fine. By the time “Everybody Hurts” came around I was so far removed from R.E.M. that I had no idea how deep their deep cuts were gonna hit 20 years later.
Self hurt, self help, self pain, fuck all
In 2011, my dad finally got sober. The same year R.E.M. called it quits. Unlike R.E.M. (as of this moment) there would be an eventual reunion for the two of us. We had each gone the 12 step route—AA and Alanon. I had learned to withdraw with love. We had never really stopped talking, but there was always a static—a weak signal—a rural cellphone connection. Then one day, the line was clear. The work had worked. We atoned. We forgave. The in-between was often ugly. There were co-dependencies, a divorce, bad friendships, poor choices, and a lot of being chased by ghosts. This time I was aware of the dangers of cigarettes and alcohol.
A decade of repairing our broken machine had passed. My apartment was above a tailor’s shop on the corner of the main street through town. It had been a year since everything shut down and people were starting to appear more frequently in the crosswalk below. My desk faced the west window and I had started staring out of it more frequently than working. An old man in a red hat carried letters to a nearby mailbox almost daily. The patterns of dog walkers, joggers, and grocery getters were becoming more clear. Like a lot of people during that time, I turned to music for solace—sometimes a soundtrack emerged from the burgeoning bustle outside. A Koyaanisqatsi for the Covid age.
My biggest musical discovery during this time were Quivers, a jangle-pop band out of Australia whose album Golden Doubt found regular rotation on my turntable. It was the kind of album that sounded new and exciting, but also oddly familiar. There were elements of The Chills, Teenage Fanclub, and R.E.M. The R.E.M. influence was so pronounced that it was not a surprise to learn that the band had released a full album cover of Out of Time. Maybe it was time to revisit it. Besides, my teenage angst had worn off well and now I’m bored and old.
I need this I need this
First, the Quivers version of Out of Time is worth every minute. The dated “Radio Song” becomes a slowed down two minute intro into a mandolin-free and driving “Losing My Religion.” While “Shiny Happy People” gets the schlocky edges smoothed off through a reduced tempo, removal of most of the lyrics and a blissed out second half of the song that segues nicely into “Belong.” By the time you get to “Country Feedback” you realize you’ve been wrong all this time.
“Country Feedback” is R.E.M.’s greatest song. Full stop. It’s obviously about the ending of a romantic relationship, but the more I returned to it the more I saw the parallels in my own relationship with my father. The loops, the blame, the excuses. It’s all the same. Sometimes we’re out of time—not in the literal sense of seconds elapsing—but that we aren’t in the right place at the right time to receive a message, to understand a song or film. And then sometimes we are literally out of time.
A paper weight, junk garage, winter rain, a honey pot
I got the call on a Saturday. My dad wasn’t the calling type. He had terminal lung cancer. Six months later I was on a plane headed to his funeral. I wore a perfectly fitted suit. There were years when I thought that call might have been different. A drunk driving accident, a heart attack. I wondered how I might have felt. At this moment, I was sad and thankful. Sad that we didn’t get enough of the good times. But there was enough suffering and I was thankful that it was over.
Back at my parents house, I was digging through a garage full of junk. My dad could fix anything so he often kept everything. There were old computer parts, torn apart stereo equipment, and piles of tools. There was a pinball machine he never got around to repairing and boxes of old VHS tapes and CDs. At the bottom of one of the boxes was a copy of R.E.M.’s Automatic For The People. I didn’t know he owned it. There were so many years of barely communicating that when we finally started seriously talking there was too much apologizing. We ran out of time before we could get to the good stuff—the things we shared—the R.E.M.’s. It’s crazy what we could have had.
Jeremy Bennett lives in Colorado. His essay for Baltimora’s “Tarzan Boy” lost in the first round of the March Fadness 80s Edition tournament by two freakin’ points so please vote for him. He has no published work of note—he’s just a guy who likes to write sometimes.