I have been placed on a fairly significant committee for some work related developments; and as I sat in a meeting struggling to voice a simple opinion, my voice quavering to the point of hyperventilating and almost apologizing when asked to state my name and my position, I came to a significant realization: This is the curse of the goth kids.
From 1989-1992, I was a goth kid. I wore black every day, worshiped Robert Smith of The Cure, and sat on the shag carpet lining my closet floor with a little candle night-light I bought at a garage sale for a quarter so I could compose what I perceived was deep, pain-filled poetry.
(Robert Smith)
But, perhaps I get a little ahead of myself:
Let me simplify the goth culture circa 1989 by using a simple math equation–
If X = Your perceived level of apathy about society
If Y = How much you rant about popular kids and trends and engage in unpopular habits ranging from dress to music choices
If Z = How much you insist your parents and/or siblings stifle your independence
Then: X(Y+Z) = Your level of “gothness”
Granted, this is the perception equation, and I am here to blow up the goth culture of my era. Perhaps you recall the television show that was on a few years back with the magician who was telling all the secrets behind all the famous magic illusions. He, or she, had broken the magician’s code of silence. That is what I’m going to do with the land of the goth.
I had a friend named Nicole. She was the coolest girl I had ever met. In 7th grade, her face painted white like a 18th century French aristocrat and her mouth as filthy as a sailor’s, she was the only person in my social group who had ever been to a Skinny Puppy’s concert and was therefore the leader.
(Skinny Puppy)
Yet, when I went over to her house in Blaine, Minnesota, we watched Disney’s The Fox and the Hound in her family room, munching on orange circus peanuts that she shoplifted from the Tom Thumb. When that straggly hound-dog sheltered that defenseless fox to protect it from being shot in cold blood, tears made her mascara run, and before taking a swig of her Yoo-hoo, she declared the gesture “F’n mint.” High praise, indeed.
Beyond contrary belief, we didn’t sit around and whine about our own lives—well, not as much as South Park would lead you to believe, at least. In fact, a lot of what we did was bemoan the fate of our innocent peers—how people were so cruel to that girl who was a little overweight, how that effeminate boy was picked on so ruthlessly in English class, or how someone in the neighborhood had intolerable parents who only yelled at him 24/7 and he was such a nice kid.
We all wanted to be the straggly bloodhound stepping over the wounded fox, providing shelter. Instead, though, we’d sit at the school playground, smoking cigarettes, or sit at a restaurant drinking coffee watching the world around us, shaking our heads in helpless resignation.
For some of us, perhaps our black clothing was a form of mourning: mourning not just our own existence but also the bigger sphere where we were the observers and non-participants—because, let’s face it, being an observer was much safer.
Unfortunately, growing up forces you to become a participant. So, what happens to the goth kids as they reach mid-life? If they are anything like me, they sit in meetings trying not to speak or be noticed; when called upon, they anticipate being squashed by one of the other people at the table—because that’s what was observed in childhood—people being squashed by the popular, the strong, the confident.
So, we express our opinions, feebly, and wait for the “smack-down” to occur—and, it usually does. However, if we are asked to voice an opinion or a concern in a written form—like e-mail—then those countless nights of writing poetry in the closet pays off. We can definitely express ourselves through the written word—for us our pens were always mightier than our mouths…
Time to revisit our math: The mid-life goth circa 2013
If X = Your lack of self-confidence and fear of taking chances
If Y = Your level of listening to and observing others
If Z = Your desire to express yourself in a meaningful way
Then: X(Y+Z) = Your level of mid-life “gothness”
Not exactly an equation for disaster, but definitely room for improvement–
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