I have this vivid memory from my childhood. It’s my brother and I in the backseat of our early 90’s family car, complete with a flashy burgundy interior and a futuristic voice command that would remind you to “please buckle up” when you closed the car doors. Puff, the Magic Dragon is playing on the tape deck and it’s coming to an end. Just about where we’d find out that the dragon frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee, it cuts off and starts to blare some inaudible jargon. “Where’s my music Mom?” I asked. “Dad made a mixtape for all of us so we don’t get sick of each other’s music Vanessa, so you get a song and then we get a song.”
My parents had inadvertently made me my first mixtape at the age of four.