Graphic by Brenda Delgado
There are many shared experiences for those of marginalized gender identities in the face of the oppressor, and one in particular must face the music. Whether you are minding your own business while wearing a band T-shirt in public or standing in the middle of the pit at a concert, at one point or another, a man has approached you to question your legitimacy as a rock fan. They might demand that you name five songs, or question if you know what the album is about. Or, they might remark that “I bet you just listen to them because your boyfriend listens to them.”
Admittedly, I’m not the person who comes to mind when you think of someone who listens to punk, and until you get in my car and “Nice Nice” by Dazey and the Scouts accidentally comes on at full volume, you won’t be able to tell. I think the color pink is more rock and roll than black (and I will die on that hill); I prefer sundresses and ’70s-era boots over leather or chains. I love cows too much to wear actual leather, so I asked for faux leather Doc Martens for Christmas in order to affirm myself as an eco-conscious punk.
And I don’t limit myself to only listening to the distant classic rock/punk era of the 1970s-1990s. I famously love Harry Styles, ABBA, Taylor Swift, Dolly Parton and other music artists that, in the eyes of men, trivialized me as just a “fan girl.” But that doesn’t take away from the fact that I’ve reread Patti Smith’s book “Just Kids” three times now or that I claim her and Stevie Nicks as my personal gods. I still grew up on Pearl Jam, Blue Öyster Cult, Foo Fighters, Rush, Blondie and more. I’ve watched documentaries and listened to stories about the punk movement — it was fucking rad. I was absolutely enthralled with how fucking rad it all was.
And yet, if I dare to walk out of my house honoring the birthplace of new wave music with a CBGBs shirt or talk about the newest Destroy Boys album, I am grilled by men who believe my interest is a facade — men who are just waiting for me to flub the answer to one of their silly questions that act as a litmus test for my knowledge and passion. It becomes a competition between me, a young feminine person, and older men for validity in the punk rock space because they are more aligned with the assumed stereotype. Even guys my own age feel the need to authorize my interest in punk because it has been gatekept by their fathers and grandfathers, and now they feel an obligation to continue the cycle.
News flash: Punk wasn’t created for or by heterosexual, cis-gendered white men until it crawled its way down the throats of the youth via the Ramones or Television. The word punk actually has its origins in Southern Black, queer prison slang to mean the passive partner in sex. It was always — and forever will be — a term reserved for freaks on the outside of what society deems acceptable. Punk is an anarchic, gritty, queer, insane movement a lot of the time.
When I think of punk, I think of hole-in-the-wall clubs in Greenwich and East Village. I think of the codes queer people created, such as hanky and lace codes, and tattoos, such as the nautical star tattoos lesbians would get to signal who they were in these spaces. I think of punk being spearheaded by women such as Vivienne Westwood, Joan Jett, Patti Smith, Debbie Harry, Kim Gordon and Poly Styrene. I think of Divine, Joan Jett Blakk, Jayne County, G.B. Jones and Kathleen Hanna. I’m not thinking of Tom, who grew up with a lawyer dad in New Hampshire and got an art degree from Bowdoin. So, why do I, as a queer woman, have to be the one to prove my place when punk was created by and for people like me?
But — unlike the generations who’ve come before me and didn’t know what the fuck they were actually talking about — I’m not going to gatekeep punk. Punk is for anyone who has ever felt on the outskirts of society. Punk is for people who don’t fit into nice, neat boxes. Punk is radical kindness and empathy. Punk is a messy, chaotic, loud, artistic, weird, funky, misshapen type of thing that allows anyone to come and go as they please. And despite what Tom from New Hampshire says, you don’t have to name five songs or know the blood type of the lead singer or blindly worship the ground the band walks on. You just have to be a good person who wants to make rad art. That’s what it’s always been about.
In her book detailing the history of the riot grrrl movement, “Girls to the Front,” Sara Marcus writes, “The thrill! It could happen! It didn’t even have to be hard! The universe was full of songs, just waiting for you to get some friends together and write them. And then you weren’t just a fan anymore; you were a member of the fellowship of people who made things.”
So, make your zine. Start your band. Write that song. Take that photo. Paint that wildly obscure mural. Do whatever it is your rebel girl heart desires, and do it knowing you don’t need a pass to be a punk.