Sweet Bean Selene

Interview, Videography, and Photography by Autie Carlisle of Shasta Stories

The following was transcribed from an audio interview conducted by Autie Carlisle for “We Exist,” an upcoming episode of Shasta Stories. The interview has been edited for clarity and brevity.

Autie Carlisle: Where are you from and how did you get into playing music?

Sweet Bean Selene: I’m from Las Vegas, Nevada. I probably started busking to feed myself and my sister when I was like 13/14. I would go on the strip and sing acapella. As a kid you don’t really need much. I was a mega teen alcoholic, but I could figure out how to make money and I started studding my friends’ vests or sewing or making them an outfit. If they liked two of their band shirts I would cut them and sew them together in one shirt or whatever. I’ve been really fortunate that people enjoy what I do and what I create from my voice or my hands, to be able to take care of myself. 

I ran away to Oregon when I was 17, and then I started riding trains when I was 19. Dunsmuir was the first place I came to via freight train–I had never seen anything like this. Coming from Las Vegas and seeing trees like this…seeing water like this, that you can drink out of the frickin’ ground, I was like, “This is crazy!” It was cool, and beautiful, and the sun was warm. I definitely cried a little bit, because I’d never seen anything so like a story book. 

[Dunsmuir has] always had a weird thing with hobos, where some people really like it, and some don’t, and there’s the “I’m not gonna look at you” [people] but then there’s people who just really wanna talk to you…like the people who think you’re a PCT hiker which, is always really fun. Literally my first time here this lady was like, “Are you doing PCT, or are you a hobo?” And I was like, “Oh, hobo, ma’am.” And she was like, “Hobos think bridges are romantic.” And I was like, “You’re so right!”

Autie: What is a hobo?

Selene: To me a hobo is someone who goes and experiences new places and doesn’t take–they add to the situation. A little thought in the night, no one ever sees you. You just disappear in and out like a little ghost. A hobo is someone who goes from town to town to work a job. A tramp is a person that goes town to town via hitchhiking vehicle or a freight train to work a job. A bum is someone who frequently leaves town but seldom finds a job. That was my most old man train answer of all time.

Autie: What’s it like riding freight trains?

Selene: I learned from my ex to do rips–to practice–before we went east. [We left] Eugene to come down [to Dunsmuir], because it's the most iconic and simple [ride]. I was just so happy, and I had lived such a deprived, terrifying life, and for the first time ever I was doing something that was scary that was [also] fun. I got to meet this really old guy named Slick, it’s funny he’d kill me for calling him really old. Slick was a total story book character, he had “hobo pride” tattooed on the back of his leg, he talks in all this old lingo and code. He was calling me a “Flinstone kid,” because [I] had face tattoos and bone jewelry and septum rings and stuff like that. He would sit on the mini-well and put his feet down towards the knuckle, and I just kept being like, “That’s rule number one, never [do that]!” I was getting really freaked out and looking over at my ex, and my ex was definitely panicked and Slick just like, “I smell the Burger King, we’re passing Mt. Shasta!” I was like, “What the fuck?” Every time I see that Burger King, every time I’m in a train, or in a car, I’m like, “Ahh, I can smell the Burger King!” It’s so funny, he got me forever with that. 

I think that’s the most important part of traveling–getting to collect the memories of the people you’ll never get to see again. I’ve met so many incredible people who either have tons of friends or no friends, who have lost someone really dear to them and who just need someone to know them, that they’ll never see again. You get to experience a lot of vulnerability when you’re just out there with your backpack. I remember all the people I meet traveling…who teach me how to do something I’ve never done before, show me how to leave in a safer way, teach me a new song. It’s this constant sharing and it’s really cool.

Autie: How have monikers played a role in railroad culture?

Selene: Monikers [are] from railroader culture, [railroad] worker marks on the trains. And then hobos did check-ins and their own little sketches under bridges or water towers–check-ins like your name, where you’re going, it's somewhat [subversive]. It’s cool that [monikers] came from workers…that’s their way of expressing art while they’re working a horrific job. I like them because it’s so nice to see [my friend’s] handwriting and be able to touch where their hand wrote and feel what they did. Or if someone’s passed, you get to see something [they wrote], like something cheesy or stupid or funny, and you’re like, “Oh my god I love that.” You get to be in that moment of them passing by. I became friends with somebody because their moniker made me feel safe every time I [saw it]. I was randomly telling someone a story and that person was like, “That’s my moniker,” and we were friends until they passed away. They inspired me so much to continue to become the kind person that I am.

Autie: How has railroad culture changed over time?

Selene: We are now a lot more inclusive. There’s been groups of people who have always stood up against [people who hurt others], but now everyone’s just perfectly queer and special and [we say], “Hey man, you can’t say that here,” and everyone backs that. It brings out a lot of really cool regular dudes who would just hide off in the bushes because they didn’t want to interact with the BS happening at the jungle [a jungle is a hobo encampment near a railroad yard], and now [the culture is] to look out for each other, and that’s really special. That’s never changed–you’re always supposed to supply and help each other–but now it’s way more queer, and there’s way less scary nasty men that we need to protect ourselves from. They're more intimidated to do something gross because they know they will be held accountable and we’re not afraid to stand up for ourselves. 

Hobos who inspire me are my friends–they are all doing something so unique, and really standing up for what all of us want to see in the world, and not giving up hope. [They’re] going out and feeding people, even if they’re just living out of their backpack. And it’s just beautiful. I feel really lucky to be around people who actually care, and [even] if they’re in motion, if they are traveling, they’re still a part of the community.

Autie: What’s one of your biggest challenges and do you have any advice for others on the fringe of society?

Selene: I have not made money at all in the last ten months because of grief. I’m lucky if I have $80 in my bank account, so [putting] music out that people will tip or buy is going to make it so I can take [my dog] to the vet.

Our community today just got a really bad hit. The grief has piled so much for so long, and the last two years have been nonstop. You can’t go six weeks without the most tragic death [happening that] you’ve ever heard [of] in your life. When you’re on the underbelly of society you just experience death a lot more than everyone else does. After last year and how many people I lost, and our community lost, that were so dear to us, I'm honestly terrified. I can’t take another addition to the list of people who I love dearly and are no longer here.

In the queer community a lot of people don’t get to grow old, and in the hobo community a lot of people don’t get to grow old. “Old” for both of those communities is like 30-35. And that’s insane. A lot of people in the overlapping of those communities don’t get to experience [old age]. It’s really wonderful that there’s so many queer people and women and femmes and trans people who are heavily active in my community–the thought of having elders who have learned all these skills and want to teach and give it in a safe way is so special, and that’s not something anyone has seen. Trans people don’t get to grow old, especially not trans people of color, or women of color. If they get to grow old in this community it’s like ten times wilder, because they survived things that are unspeakable, and they saw the most beautiful things, and they could give that to the younger generation. I’m just excited to see my friends get over the age of 30.

I wrote [Sun Will Rise] as an expression of my suicide that I didn’t commit. It made me realize that I could be an elder to people in my community, so I wanted to remind people that it’s worth it.