New York: Where Dreams of a Punk Kid Go to Die
April 21, 2022New York
I was a gangly, wildly insecure 17-year-old kid when I landed in New York in the mid-1990s. I had only applied to one school. I didn’t know what made me confident that I would get accepted into NYU, but it was the farthest I could get away from Texas without needing a passport, so perhaps it was more desperation than confidence.
Growing up in Texas was - lonely. And New York held this promise of diversity and community that meant I would be able to find a community of people who felt like me and saw the world like me, and shared my singular ambition to express themselves artistically in a wildly non-conformist way. But, spoiler alert - running to New York wasn’t the solution to the ills that haunted me. I confronted just as much close-minded and backward thinking in New York as I did in Texas. And conversely, I found just as many creative and interesting people in my backyard of Houston as I did hanging out in the Village, Brooklyn, or the Lower East Side.
I would eventually learn that loneliness isn’t like some old decrepit house you can just pack your things and move away from. It’s more like a favorite t-shirt, worn down and tattered. You should have gotten rid of it years ago, but everywhere you go, you seem to carry it with you.
At night, I would roam the streets of New York constantly whenever I felt things got too much or I just needed time to clear my head. I would walk from my dorm on 10th St. and Broadway all the way up to Times Square on 44th. There used to be a 24-hr arcade there and I would play Street Fighter or Tekken until my quarters ran out and walk back home at 3 or 4 in the morning. I will never forget one night passing by the famed music venue CBGB. I don’t know what band was getting ready to play, but the line of people waiting to get in wrapped around the block. It was a ragtag display of the most eclectic people I had ever seen. Spiked mohawks of various fills and gradients littered the crowd, along with a plethora of chain-linked belts, steel-toed boots, and ripped fishnets. An assortment of girls had freshly shaven heads, paired with dark mascara, black lipstick, and spiked collars around their necks. I felt a thrill of excitement. Here was a group of people unafraid to express themselves in radically different ways. I had struggled with crippling insecurity for so long, and here were people who seemed free from giving a shit what anyone else thought of them. Or perhaps they were afraid, afraid of being judged, afraid of not being accepted unconditionally for who they were that this self-expression was a rebellion against that fear.
Either way, I felt an immediate connection. I had long identified as an anarchist ever since I was four years old and wouldn’t perform the pledge of allegiance in kindergarten. I had just seen a documentary on PBS about Chinese brainwashing and indoctrination techniques, and I was horrified as I watched our kindergarten teacher lead us through the same indoctrination methods that communist China used on their youth. My four-year-old ass wasn’t having it. But to my teachers’ credit, they mainly left me to my own devices.
My problem back then wasn’t so much with the pledge of allegiance but that no one else was even questioning it. Every day, those eager young faces and malleable minds just sprung up to repeat a daily mantra without ever really asking why. Five days a week, nine months out of the year for the next 13 years of their life, give or take a few for vacation and sick days, they would repeat a meditation dedicating their will and servitude to a piece of cloth with red and blue dye and some stars on it. I felt like I was in a bad Stephen King novel and that at any moment all the kids in class would turn to me, eyes glowing, and their heads would open up to reveal they had been robots all along.
I was labeled a rebel, but I wasn’t rebellious. I just asked a lot of questions and refused to follow along if something didn’t make sense. Even though I thought of myself as an “anarchist,” perhaps that word wasn’t the perfect fit. For many, anarchist means disruptor, but for me, it meant freedom; autonomy. Freedom from blindly following a status quo. Freedom from accepting an unexplained or illogical narrative. Freedom from indoctrination. It meant the ability to independently reason and reach my own conclusions, even if I was traveling upstream while everyone else was swimming downriver. But the autonomy that was so liberating for me was also a source of great loneliness.
But now, here I was at CBGB, surrounded by a group of fellow anarchists who understood society as I did. The veils of loneliness that had followed me my entire life had fallen away instantly and standing there, I was filled with this intense feeling of community.
I walked over to a guy standing in line and asked him about the band playing that night. He tossed his head back at me, the faded green spikes of his mohawk cutting into the air, gave me a once-over, and looking at my polo shirt and blue jeans, promptly told me to “get the fuck outta here, you square.”
I stared at him for a good long moment. A bit in shock, admittedly, but a realization hit me that was such a pivotal moment for me. I was more punk than he was. I was more anarchist than the anarchist. The student had surpassed the master. Clothing was always more to me about functionality than style. I put them on so I wouldn’t be naked. I didn’t care about name brands, I didn’t care about fashion. I didn’t understand the obsession with it, quite honestly. And because of that, a dress code didn’t define me. Looking at this guy, I realized that he was trapped in a system that demands he dresses a certain way and listens to certain music to prove he is an advocate against that very same type of system in the first place! This guy was no punk at all. And that realization was wildly liberating but also left me feeling utterly and inescapably alone.
There was only one thing that would shelter me from the heavy shadow of depression. If I couldn’t find a sense of belonging, then there was always art.
- to be continued…
Be Well. Question. And Create.
Footnote: I battled deep depression for over 20 years before finding my way. If you or anyone you know is battling depression, there is hope and resources, and ultimately, you will be okay. That is not an empty promise. I am the proof. If you are struggling, reach out to someone. Anyone. Reach out to me. I am here.