So today, I reawakened a feeling. I often say, I came from a rough background and you can find more on that in this and my former blog. But what did it feel like? Buckle up.
Imagine a stick of 118 lb tan skinned teen with thin horizontal scars all up and down his arms and chest that peak through his brightly colored, half-buttoned shirts and long ripped shorts. A backward low profile baseball cap holds uneven hair from falling down past his chin in front...just there.
It's 1am and he's driving home in a faded ProbeGT. As he rounds the corner into 15th St the homeless dude in the middle of the street raises a haggard face at the screech of tires, but keeps ambling his cart. The night is sultry and orange streetlights wash through the open windows that start grinding a racous metalic skreeting and pounding, deep inside of which is a rhythm and melody.
The traffic light changes ahead and the boy swears as he hits the brakes. Two dark skinned thugs in clownish baggy pants and white ribbed tanks look up fromcthe corner. One puts his hand where his junk should be, and grips a metal object. But the boy turns up the music, careful not to make eye contact. The other thug taps the first and shakes his head. The hand relaxes.
Light changes and he makes the turn onto the main road where another light catches him. He feels a bump and looks up to see an eclipse touching his tail. A civic pulls up on the left with a red and blue triangular flag hanging from the rearview. The engine revs and the driver stares tauntingly at the youth. Here we go again.
Light changes and both cars rocket forward. The eclipse taps again and slides around then disappears through the next red light. The boy turns in between the peeling stucco of his apartment buildings. At the top of the exterior stairs 4 more thugs are knocking back brown wrapped bottles. The boy grimaces and jumps out confidently slamming the door, but not too hard. No need to issue a challenge.
He walks up and slides past the 4. One starts to comment and the kid wheels with a look that makes the others pull back the speaker and the kid closes his door.
What's happening here? How can he get through this unscathed? It's a detante. A power game. The music announces the tribe in advance. The race holds enough respect to not be taken as prey, but let's the pack-running grudge-holders win. The look at the door is the final tactic.
You see, for poor kids in that era, punk was a tribe. An identity that said things about you. They were the angry, wounded, those with the least to lose. They just want to keep to themselves, but mess with them and they won't hack down or just trade fists. They'll blow up the whole gas station and take everyone with them. Because life ain't that great to start with...you ready to see what's on the other side?
Though I drive a sensible car, have a more normal haircut and business casual clothes, those scars are still under there. This is the backdrop I live in. And I'm not alone. So please just think about that when you interact with strangers and let's all just go about our business with civility.
