Welcome to Breaking Down Patriarchy. I'm Amy McPhee All the Best.

Music is one of the keys that can unlock our memories, sometimes almost transporting us back through time.

Whoever you are, chances are that you have at least a few of these musical shortcuts to the past.

Maybe you remember driving down the highway with your friends,

windows down, singing together at the top of your lungs. Or maybe you remember seeing a

favorite band in concert and the electric energy when they played that one perfect song.

Music can tie us to moments of community, of family, of grieving, of celebration, of callings of faith.

Music even ties many of us to our most romantic moments through a special song that we share

with a partner or spouse. Whatever genres you listen to, whatever instruments you play,

music grounds all of us in our most intimate and important

moments. I'm so grateful today to be joined by Jesse Iocono, who will be taking us on a journey

through music and memories through childhood struggles to marriage, to motherhood and medical

crises, all while confronting patriarchy and trauma,

alongside the guiding lyrics of Billy Joel.

Jesse Brian Iocono's pronouns are she, her, and she is a writer, a business owner, and a real estate investor.

She enjoys reading, watching her three kids play sports,

being active, and traveling with her family. And just as a note to listeners, before we begin,

today's episode will include some discussion of topics such as mental illness and self-harm.

So please take care of yourselves accordingly. Welcome, Jesse Iacono.

Thank you. take care of yourselves accordingly. Welcome, Jesse Iocono. My life described in Billy Joel lyrics by Jesse Brian Iacono. The title of my essay for the popular cult classic podcast, Breaking Down Patriarchy,

may bemuse you at first, or the fact that I refer to BDP as a cult classic. I promise by the

end of my narrative, both will make sense. Uptown Girl. I'm six years old, sitting on a round wooden barstool in my family kitchen with my elbows up on the tan fermika countertop. Fork in hand, I slide eggs across my plate, not wanting to take a bite as my stomach aches. My mother calls my breakfast cheese egg, not scrambled, not eggs with cheese, but cheese egg.

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