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by Megan Harris

The gravel crunched lightly under my nondescript sneakers, and the remaining puddles from last nights rain seeped up the cuff of my flare-legged blue jeans. I tied the arms of my hoodie around my waist, it was a warm night. “What kind of show did you say this was?” asked my mother.

“Rockabilly, that’s what the paper said.” I could already feel the bass thrumming in my gut when we were still 10 yards from the door. The couple in front of us pulled open the door, and a tidal wave of sound and smoke engulfed us. Nervously, I handed the doorman my five dollar bill and held out my hand for the admission stamp.

“Megan this doesn’t look like your kind of music, maybe we should leave,” my mom said tentatively. Wide-eyed, I replied, “No freaking way”. And with that, I stepped into the fray.

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I’d never heard music played so loudly before in my life. Pounding out of cheap borrowed speakers, penetrating my body like a tribal heartbeat. This was insanity. Room spinning in a smoky haze, distorted in the flashing colored lights, I lost myself. I could not think, I could not hear, I could hardly see, and it was bliss. I looked out over the gathered crowd, engrossed in the tidal wave of huge colored hair and bejeweled faces, of ripped clothing and militant boots. Mohawks rising over the congregation like sharks in a rainbow sea. I was a fat grey pigeon in a flock of exotic birds, proclaiming my normality and simplicity for all to see. And in that moment, more than anything I wanted to be one of those people, I too wanted to be colorful, exotic, and inspiring. I wanted to look my strict, predictable life in the face and say FUCK YOU!…I had never screamed at anyone in my life. The very idea of doing anything remotely displeasing to another person was enough to make my stomach turn, and yet--- I wondered. How empowering would it be to become one of them? To strut around as if the world were my oyster, like I didn’t give a damn who approved of or hated me. These thoughts filled me, and I clung to this first strand of rebellion like a drowning man, each jarring note of the electric guitar like a gasp of icy air. I vowed in the corner of that dingy venue that I would become part of this new and exciting world, that I would immerse myself in this seedy underbelly of American culture. I emerged from that ramshackle building sweaty and bruised, but with a new purpose, to become who I wanted to be. If I could’ve pulled out a crystal ball, and looked into my future on that night, foreseeing the difficulties this journey would create, I likely would have run for the hills, cowering in the plush corners of my predictable life for the rest of my days.

Looking back on that cool summer night from years ago, I would say with certainty that it changed my life. Most days I think for the better. That was the first day that I ever mustered the defiance to even form an idea of the person I wanted to be, regardless of the plans others had for me. People look at me on the street now, and they see obnoxious dress and clunky boots, funny colored hair, gauges and piercings. To some this is inspiring, to others disgusting. And despite what most of them think, I don’t do this for their reaction. I look in the mirror each morning and see a series of small attempts to shape my identity. Every piercing, every stick of eyeliner, every jar of gaudy hair dye, is a step in the formation of me. Every clownish pair of tights, every ripped up band t-shirt, every scuff on my Doc Marten boots is a mark of painstakingly won identity. Through these small, simple alterations I become myself.

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Just be yourself. What a misleading phrase! It seems simple, easy, like something you would find in a fortune cookie. And your lucky numbers are… but no, becoming yourself, being yourself, is far from easy. The temptation is always there, whispering in your ear “give up, just do what they want, become who they want, and everything will be easier”. Those are the times when I seek out a punk show, a metal show, anywhere I can once again immerse myself in that brightly colored sea. Where amplified instruments drown out my doubts and I can again find myself. Tossing back and forth, in ebb and flow of human bodies, I let go. I release my tight measured grip of control from my life and seek that tribal heartbeat, reminding me of who I want to be.