In life, we often turn to the arts for answers. People find comfort and wisdom in writing, in paintings, in music. When we are ground down to our barest form of humans, when we’re faced with such challenges that break us down to a blank canvas, open to anything that will solve the problem or pain in front of us, we turn to that of beauty. As Eminem says, “Music is a reflection of self.” (We just explain it, and then we get our checks in the mail...) Sorry, I can’t start an Eminem lyric and not finish it. The point is, art releases us into a world of our own. (Everybody has a private world, where they can be alone...) The person whose voice and sound I have turned to since I was merely 8 years old is the person I still turn to this day—to relieve my strength, to give me comfort, to remind me of my relentlessness. The man I have related to as a speaker, and most importantly, as a writer. This is my long overdue ode, thanks, and allegiance to the most genius and fearless artist to ever walk this earth: Marshall Bruce Mathers.

If you’re not familiar with the name, I’ll try a few others: Slim Shady, Eminem, Em, and if you’re a true fan as I, you’ll know B Rabbit. One of my earliest memories is a second grade version of myself, hood up, walking around Center Ice while my brother played hockey, straight BUMPING to D12 through my little CD player. I would do laps around the hockey rink, just absorbing as many words as I could and replaying each song over and over. Now at 19, I drive around in my little car with a mixed CD of his best songs, still absorbing every sentence and trying to understand it. Some things don’t change with age.

Since I’ve turned from an 8-year-old to a 19-year-old, Marshall has been next to me, in my ears, in my heart, in my thoughts, through it all. Now, I understand how it may be difficult to see how a suburban white girl such as I could connect and relate to the problems Em describes in his songs. No, I’m not addicted to Ambien. I didn’t grow up in one of the roughest parts of Detroit. My dad didn’t abandon me when I was just a child. But there is something that connected him and me. Among the many things this man has taught me, the most important remains: Rebellion.

Marsh taught me to be a rebel—and to be proud of it. He taught me to be a rebel against the people who told me I couldn’t, to rebel against against the norms and expectations of society. I learned through his eloquent and at times, angry phrases that it was OK to act and speak to who I truly was, and am.

Em taught me that I could do anything. Countless times, his words in “Till I Collapse” pushed me through one last sprint, one last push up, one last game. If there’s anybody who exemplifies the phrase “You can do anything you set your mind to,” it’s Em. The overcoming of obstacles and battles this man has faced—addiction, abandonment, racism, mere rejection—have acted as a catalyst for my ideas and dreams. If this single man can withstand adversities I will never be able to understand, then what’s stopping me? Nothing.

He taught me it’s OK to be angry—at the world, at your parents, at your family. He taught me I don’t owe people an explanation for myself, or the things I do, or say, or think. And it’s OK to be different. It’s OK to have weird and wild thoughts. To express these thoughts through whichever means I see fit—so I picked up this pen.

Recently, I’ve written on the essence of home, and what it means to feel truly home. Marshall Mathers is home. He is the voice I’ve turned to since a young girl. He has given me the strength and courage to endure things I didn’t think possible (like surviving a Senorita Thornton basketball workout...Jesus). When I hear this man’s voice, I am at peace. I feel as if I am understood. But there’s reason why I feel this man understands me. I am a writer. I am a worker of the arts. I use these articles and words to reach so many of you the way people like Em have reached me, and I am dedicated to this purpose now. I see pieces of Marshall Mathers within myself, as a writer, as a speaker, as a person. He and I grew up in different worlds, yet these words and lines are what hold us together. They are what connect and unite us as people. I often am asked how I could possibly “like” to write, if I’m afraid I won’t get a job being an English major. Language is the essence of our being. I consider myself a wordsmith, a person who can mold and flex words into sentences that stir things deep within you. This is my passion, my purpose, and I have Marshall Bruce Mathers to thank for influencing this undying temper I will continue to feed.

And, lastly, but of course—

Don’t let them say you ain’t beautiful,

They can all get f****d—

Just stay true to you.