On The Radio

2nd annual birthday post

It’s my birthday! Well actually, it’s not my birthday. But at the time of publication, it is my 26th birthday. As I’m writing this, I’m engaging in what became my favorite activity of my 25th year on Earth. Last year, I wrote about M*A*S*H, a TV show that was essential to my childhood, and then resurfaced as part of my young adulthood. So I figured I’d do the same this year with the piece of media that has experienced a major resurgence in my life — the nighttime radio show, Delilah.

I think Delilah is my spiritual guru. Early in 2024, I saw a TikTok that initially annoyed me for no discernible reason other than sometimes hard-front wigs in internet skits sometimes do that to me. However, something stopped me in my tracks and annoyance gave way to recognition. The video said, “POV: driving with your mom in the 90s listening to Delilah.” The second I heard her voice, it was like I received a vision of a past life.

“Did you have a busy day today?” the voice hummed. “Rushing to meetings, trying to take care of business, taking care of everything — except yourself. Well now’s the time for you to do that, don’t you think? Kick off your shoes, take off the tie, sit back, and enjoy. You’re listening to Delilah.” Then the song kicks in: “I Love You Always Forever” by Donna Lewis. It was such a visceral emotion that came over me, as if I were replaying a video game and unlocking a “new” room. Delilah began in 1996, and centers around listeners calling in, telling Delilah about their lives (romantic or otherwise) and those they love, before dedicating a song to them. She would help listeners of all ages and backgrounds work through problems related to love, aging, friendship, and self-betterment. I went down a rabbit hole after this, desperate to uncover whether Delilah was still airing, and what my connection to the show was.

I discovered that not only was Delilah still active, I could listen to her on iHeartRadio. I put her on one night just to see what it was like, and couldn’t believe how relaxed I found myself. I have a disturbing sleep schedule and have tried so many things to help, but nothing sticks. But with this, I was out like a light. A few days later, I put it on earlier in the night while I read and became deeply fascinated by it. I was enamored with every part — the adult contemporary 80’s, 90’s and 2000’s song selections, the people calling in, the nightly “Delilah’s Dilemma” where she reads a letter and then gives a long monologue response. I loved every moment. Sometimes the transitions into songs were so out of pocket that I couldn’t even be like, “Why this song?” I just had to sit back and enjoy the journey. One night the “Delilah’s Dilemma” was from a teenage boy in foster care who wrote in and described profound feelings of loneliness due to the lack of stability in his life. Delilah gave a very empathetic, mom-like answer, and then played a song for him. The song was “What Makes You Beautiful” by One Direction. I understand this choice in THEORY, but hearing it come in was such a jarring vibe shift that I couldn’t help but let out a startled laugh.

I began listening more often, and would reflect on the role Delilah played in my childhood. Unlike the creator of the aforementioned TikTok, I did not listen to Delilah in the car with my mom in the 90’s. My mom didn’t drive, and had no relationship with the radio show Delilah. And if you were paying attention to my age, you’ll know I was born in the early days of the final year of the 20th century. No, my relationship with Delilah formed during sleepovers at my aunt Ruth’s house. My aunt Ruth would never go to sleep in silence. In fact, she rarely did anything in silence. Her house was always filled with the sounds of the radio, morning, noon, and night: Norah Jones, Melissa Etheridge, Aretha Franklin, Marvin Gaye, a smattering of country music that my Papa liked but that she pretended to simply tolerate. When bedtime rolled around, the kitchen radio was turned off, and the alarm clock radio in the “front bedroom,” as she called it, would be switched on. I would fall asleep with the scent of her last Marlboro Red burning out on the porch, ice water in a frosty stainless steel cup, and Delilah floating out into the dark room. It was like listening to a story before bed, and I would often lay awake waiting to hear tales of confused and hopeful love, before drifting off to a comfortable night’s rest.

These reflections started to pick up in February and March. I mentioned it over text, and in the back of cars on the way to birthday parties. I cheered and screamed when I went home to Massachusetts and heard the show on an actual radio again as my mom picked me up from the train station. I didn’t realize how much I loved and missed listening to the radio. But the reflections took on a different meaning when my aunt Ruth passed away in April. Those close to me know that this year has been an incredibly difficult one, for numerous reasons, but none of them compare to the feeling of losing her. My dad’s oldest sister, Ruth helped raise him and then helped raise his children. At times, it felt like my entire world spun on the axis of her and my Papa’s small house. She was the closest thing we had to a family matriarch, and I loved her in an immense, complicated way. When she passed, it was difficult to regulate my emotions. My sleep schedule contorted more and more, and when I slept, I dreamed of her.

When I came back to New York, I picked up listening to Delilah again in an attempt to quiet my mind enough to sleep. Only a few weeks after Ruth’s passing, I was waiting to fall asleep as Delilah took a radio call. It was from a little girl, eight years old, who was having a sleepover. Delilah played “Unwritten” by Natasha Bedingfield for her. It was so sweet in a Barbie movie kind of way that I burst into tears. All I could think of was being eight years old and listening to Delilah in the warm, New England summer nights, eating a Luigi’s Italian Ice with my beloved aunt Ruru on the porch, while Shania Twain harmonized with insistent crickets.

From that moment on, Delilah became a way to work through grief. When I was awake in the dead of night, I could count on Delilah to play music that put me at ease, have discussions with callers that made me question their sanity (and mine), and coax me into remembering things in a sweet light instead of through the lens of dread. It didn’t give me the same storybook, rose-colored glasses romanticism it did when I was a little girl — I had lived a good deal since then. Instead, it gave me a hopeful, connected feeling. I found myself longing for analog technology more and more throughout the year, feeling disillusioned with what I came to see as an oppressively digital and isolated society. Instead of skipping through song after song on Spotify, I would listen to Delilah on my commute home from work. I used to be a kid listening to Delilah work her magic to put adults with busy office jobs at ease at the end of a long day, and as I rode the J train across the Williamsburg Bridge, the Manhattan skyline shrinking and “Standing Still” by Jewel playing in my headphones, I realized I had become that person.

In a time where we feel like we’re more divided than we’ve ever been, I took solace in listening to the stories of people from across a country that was seemingly tearing itself apart every single day. Maybe it sounds so unbelievably corny, but it was a profound comfort to hear people use music to connect with their loved ones. It made me really grasp the idea that even if our systems fail us, love will always be our cure. Love for our family, our friends, our planet, our cultures, our art. We’re nothing without it. I’ve been on a Bowie kick lately, and few songs make me as jubilant to be alive as “Under Pressure” does. It’s a declaration of love as a defiant act, love as a dangerous but necessary and worthy act.

'Cause love's such an old-fashioned word

And love dares you to care for

The people on the edge of the night

And love dares you to change our way of

Caring about ourselves

I think this sums up what I love about Delilah.

As I’m writing, Delilah is playing in the background. One of the callers was a man named John, who was calling to dedicate a song to his six children. He has to work a lot, he told Delilah, but he tries to find ways to make sure his kids know how much he loves them in whatever way he can. Tonight, he wanted to send them a song. Delilah played “Forever Young” by Rod Stewart.

It made me choke up thinking about the idea of someone calling in late at night, to request a song be played for their loved one who may also be listening and thinking of them. To be connected, even just for a short moment, over the airwaves if not in a physical space. That love can travel distances that our physical bodies can’t. And I sat here thinking of my family who I will be, for the most part, away from when I turn 26, and my friends who held my hand through a difficult year (physically or emotionally), and of the larger than life love that I hold for my aunt, during my first birthday without her. As I wrap this up, Delilah is playing “Dreams” by The Cranberries.

Oh, my life

Is changin' every day

In every possible way

And oh, my dreams

It's never quite as it seems

'Cause you're a dream to me, dream to me

Thank you for another year. You’re a dream to me <3