Back Together

I am fourteen. It is summer. The windows in my pink bedroom are open. The curtains move lazily along in a breeze that is equal parts uplifting and lackadaisical. I am standing in front of a small boom box, which took me twelve weeks to pay off with my allowance, and I am kicking, punching, thrashing about. Acting a damn fool.

Johnny Rotten is screaming, imploring me to be an anarchist, and while I am not sure what being an anarchist means, I know that the grittiness, the lack of refinement, the heartbeat I can feel inside the music is doing something to me. The Sex Pistols are waking up my inner punk-rock girl. I am beside myself to meet her.

I soon discover there are women who rock. And I feel I win the lottery. Whitney Houston sings pretty but she does not turn up my internal volume, makes me feel nothing. How will she know if he really loves her? I no longer give a shit. My world is in metamorphosis, transforming into something I cannot get enough of. Something that has women grabbing the world by its balls, swinging it over their shoulder, and heading out to claim their own stake.

I will refuse to settle for mediocrity. I will be more than an expectation. I will not bother to dress the part. I will not wear torn t-shirts, safety pins, leather pants, thick army-type boots. I will dye my hair blue on occasion, or pink or yellow, but I will not cut it into a mohawk or shave it off. I will not feel the need to look punk-rock because for me it is a feeling, not an expression.

Yes, I wanna be your dog. Let's all have a holiday in Cambodia. Please, call me day or night. If I have a dime you better believe I'm putting it in the jukebox, baby.

I will think of that girl from time to time. And I will miss her. But when I discover things--like a class action lawsuit women have filed against Wal-Mart--she always finds me. We come back together and remember everything music taught us.