There was (and still is) a group of skaters, druggies, and artists in the grade above me that I silently fawned over throughout my high school years. They dressed cool. They listened to cool music; they created cool music. They were the culmination of all my secret aesthetics. The aesthetics that flooded my Instagram feed and contributed to the closet of clothes I was too nervous about wearing to school.
I can remember every one of my one-sided interactions with my beloved classroom celebrities. On my last day of 10th grade, before pandemic lock downs, I walked to my last class, wearing bell bottom jeans from a Gloria Steinem monologue project and a cream-colored sweater from my dad’s archival closet, when I passed the two carefree skaters of the group. They were jokingly arguing with each other. I couldn’t keep my eyes off them when they met my stare. Time slowed as the one boy with floppy brown hair and wearing baggy everything said to me, “see, she gets it.”
What?
They acknowledged me but didn’t address me; they talked to a girl dressed laid-back and looked like she got it. Shortly after this fleeting nod of recognition, I learned of rumors of schools closing, which later were confirmed.
When in-person school restarted the following year, I hunted the hallways daily for their distinctive looks concealed by masks. I spent the whole year silently yearning that they would notice me and take me under their wing, introducing me to people like me. That didn’t happen. They all graduated.
Once they were gone and I entered my senior year, I started embracing my authentic style. I dressed the way I wanted to and posted the music I loved. I stayed connected through social media to my high school legends, only once swiping up on a story to say that I “literally love this song so much too,” getting a meager “liked message” response. Why was I attempting to be noticed by people who didn’t care who I was?
I gave attention to what others thought of me because I still thought of myself as my 11-year-old self, who could only feel good about herself when others liked her. Every time I meet someone new, I’m stuck deciding if I can allow myself to talk to them. I’m constantly transported to my younger, more fragile mind that doesn’t recognize the 18-year-old body it lives inside.
As this new young adult, I knew that my life at college would have to do without my unnecessary insecurity. I understood that I needed to make changes to my social habits, but my irrational fears were not something that would disappear because I decided they should. I kept my head down and my wall up.
I couldn’t change my thinking unless it was combated externally by someone contradicting my preconceived notions of them—they would have to be nice despite looking like my childhood monsters.
I was in study hall with a teammate of mine, fulfilling our requirements as first-year athletes, when I heard something I wasn’t expecting. I took out my headphones and heard the ear-pierced boy listening to the song Black Sheep from the movie Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World. The song has a raging guitar and strong female vocals, all to fit into the movie’s strange comic book story-line. I have never heard anyone else listening or knowing of it before.
Even more strangely, he asked me if I listened to Mother Mother or Vundabar, two bands I had never heard anyone else talk about besides me. Did I successfully exude the vibe that I wanted to, but this time without trying? He then asked if I wanted to go with him and the hippy girl from our team to a concert next weekend at the Filmore in Philly.
I hesitated at first. Despite my expansive taste in music, I had never gone to a concert before. None of my friends liked the same artists I did. Still, I felt I had to say yes.
Dressed in my highly thought-over outfit, I waited to be picked up by my teammates and worried if my fashion choice was too flashy. I wore a 70s-inspired marble swirl top with lose fitting light-washed jeans—both from Depop. I French-braided two sections of my hair into a half-up-half-down with smaller braids dispersed throughout the lower section. Again, I was scared I was going overboard with my look. My biggest fear is that I would feel uncomfortable but by my own doing.
My nerves settled when my teammates picked me up, and they were dressed similarly to me: crocheted tops, bell bottoms, and flowy sleeves.
While at the concert, I surprisingly wasn’t fazed by others. Instead, I embraced the truth that I belonged to be there as much as my new friends did. I couldn’t get over the fact that the artists I’d only blasted in my angsty, poster-clad bedroom were standing right in front of me.
Vundabar came out first as the opener (a new term for a first-time concertgoer). When they struck the first chord of Alien Blues, all my fears exited my body. I jumped like my high-school self at a homecoming dance. In my fit of thrashing, I accidentally used the girl in front of me as a launch board by grabbing her shoulders and boosting myself up above the crowd.
When Vundabar exited and Mother Mother came out, people lost it. Although I only cared to see Vundabar, it was only a matter of time before I was screaming louder than the true fans of Mother Mother. I knew a few songs beforehand, like Hayloft, based on its TikTok virality but easily feel into awe with their discography.
Immersed in the crowd and washed over by flashing lights, I paused dancing when someone caught my eye. He had a mini mullet with shaggy layers, a scattered tattoo sleeve, and semi-bulging eyes. My type exactly. I looked over again, and I saw that I knew him. He and the guys surrounding him were part of my high school obsession. I had forgotten that they most had moved to Philly after graduating.
The people I thought were eons away in comparative “coolness” were standing just a few feet away from me at a rock concert.
While the truth that I had every right to be in the same room as my idols was becoming more and more comfortable to accept, there was still a part of me that sought the oblivious no-more-upperclassmen’s approval. I started jumping higher in the crowd so that I could be more visible; if, for a chance, they glanced over, they could see me. It didn’t matter whether they recognized me as having gone to the same high school or being seen as someone they could hang out with. I just wanted to be seen. That’s what I have always wanted. I exiled myself for most of my childhood and adolescents, observing others because I couldn’t imagine myself being the one observed.
It’s symbolic that my first concert (a public display of my locked-away interests) was where I first realized that my obsession with status and who has it and who doesn’t was as childish as the girl that came up with it.
I plan on going to more concerts in the future where I will dress the way I want to, act the way I want to, and dance the way I want to. I’m embracing becoming the very thing that once scared me: cool.