DS Editorial: The Punk Identity

It’s three a.m. and a new face is staring back at me.

Scattered about my feet are clumps of hair, sickly mimicking a displaced halo. Whether a symbol of divinity or simply divine courage; it was a placeholder for something grand and elegant. You see, I’d toyed with giving myself a mohawk before, but all of my prior attempts lacked conviction. A little too long on the sides, just short enough on top–always a compromise between disparate elements.

But this time, no settlement was made. No matter the angle, there was no mistaking what I’d done.

I wasn’t a tourist anymore. I was a native.

Upon my introduction to punk rock, I never thought it’d take such a hold over my life. I always thought of myself as a punk enthusiast. A fetishist with a voyeuristic streak–wringing my hands and gnashing my teeth, soaking up every little interaction within a community I don’t belong. But as the years have passed my distance has diminished. Whether I consider myself a part of it or not, I’m in it. It surrounds me.

Even as I felt the first pulls of punk rock’s magnetism I had already decided that I wasn’t one of them. You can hear subversion, you can let it germinate in your mind, you can accept it. But identifying was going public. It was shaking a fist at convention in front of everyone you know and love. More than being a revolutionary in heart and mind, it was looking like one. Drawing stares as you walk the street, whispered gossip walking into the post office. Identifying as punk isn’t fighting a war, it’s starting one. It’s gathering everything they fear about youth culture and making it our suit of armor. To identify as punk is to bring the aggressiveness of our art into the complacency of everyday life. In my mind, the path of least resistance was the right one.

But I’ve strayed from the path, and I have a strip of bright green hair to remind me of the fact; I’m not a civilian anymore, I’m wearing the uniform.

Punk rock has a definitive visual style that accompanies it, and perhaps that is what draws its defining lines in the minds of many enthusiasts. But as I look at myself in the mirror, I still see me. This mohawk isn’t a statement, but it does ask a question: what does it mean to be punk? Is it letting radical politics gain roots as an extension of fashion rather than thought? Is it wearing plaid belts? Is it having a mohawk? When the moment comes where I have to shave my head and rejoin the workforce; donning a new type of uniform, keeping my hair clean cut, waking up early, working to pay my rent– will I lose my identity? Is punk rock the exaggerated personification of misdirected rage?

I hope not. I’d like to believe that punk can mean something.

As with many music subcultures, there’s a constant battle between community and elitism. Something about our music makes us want to like it more than our comrades; we live in a society where true believers are heralded for their steadfast dedication to whatever ideology they subscribe to. It’s human nature to fight for what we believe in, to keep what we love pure in our own eyes. But it’s detrimental to build a community of yes-men. Music brings us together, but the strict qualifications to claim our identity only result in stagnation. Our elitist reactions might be human nature, but that doesn’t absolve us of blame. We’re thinking animals with sentient brains, we can understand our own urges and control them. We can change our behavior.

The punk identity can’t just be mohawked true believers. We’ve got to open our arms, embrace our fellow punks– abandon our superiority complexes and be inclusive. Punk can mean something, but due to its malleable nature, it’s up to us to give it meaning. We can acknowledge that our scene has its share of good and bad. But we can also choose what we want to perpetuate. Punk could become just another dirty word again, something even its most diehard fans couldn’t associate with in good spirits. But it doesn’t have to be, the punk identity can be a source of pride. Because even with my reservations, I know punk rock can be beautiful; when we’re together, bodies packed, sharing sweat– singing in unison to a song we all learned separately; I know there’s nothing I’d rather be.