A Good Person Inside

Jill Sobule (1969-2025)

Jill Sobule—a bright star, a supernova—to me. I'm so glad I still hold the light she left with me while she exploded into and through my youth.

I grew up, like many, not feeling like there was a place for me. I didn’t see the world the way others around me did—the way the TV did, or the way my friends and family did. I knew I was different, and if I managed to forget, I was reminded daily with subtle and not-so-subtle comments like, “You

’re weird,” “Well, you’re different,” and lots of “I never thought of it that way,” followed by head scratching.

I gravitated toward weirdness, absurdities, and unusual encounters—because, for a moment, I felt seen. I felt part of something less visible, but still something.

Still not quite settled into my blooming queerness—still questioning—I found Jill Sobule. I’m not sure what came first: her “Supermodel” hit or “I Kissed a Girl.” I didn’t relate to “Supermodel.” Supermodeling wasn’t in the cards for me—even as a joke.

But “I Kissed a Girl” did something for me. I bought her self-titled album and played it so much that my younger sister and I still know all the words to every song, even the deep cuts like “Resistance Song” and “Vrbanja Bridge.” My sister, Kelli, was only eight years old.

A known weirdo and somewhat of a lone wolf, I struggled to find people who wanted to do things with me, so I often I might venture out alone. Like after work, heading to the King Coffee shop to play chess with the retired old dudes. I wasn’t good, and although I got a little better, I think I just liked that, for a moment, it felt like I was being fathered.

One day, the afternoon slipped into evening and a band started setting up. It was a Jill Sobule cover band. They jazzed everything up a bit, but they covered all her songs, word for word. And I was caught in a blissful moment. What a treat—her gas and dust blending through time, space, and cover band to find me. Thank you, friend.

Through the years, there's always a good chance that Jill finds her way into long visits with my sister. So many memories of Kelli and me dancing in bedrooms and kitchens.

“Margaret,” I would belt out.
“She missed the reunion,” Kelli would follow—
As we laughed, danced, cooked, and cleaned together.