To most people who know me, my love for the 60’s is apparent. I mean, c’mon, my email is flowerchild1771. This peaceful, idealistic alter ego is much easier for me to show to the world than my other half. My dark(er) side. I love heavy metal. Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath, Ozzy, Metallica (before they sold out). I also love…..old school gangsta rap. Yes, it’s true. Ice-T, NWA, Public Enemy. Those guys are so bad-ass. Does that make me strange? Do you know anyone else whose record collection includes Air Supply and NWA? In fact, I even have some classical CD’s. The only thing I can’t stand is country. Well, ok, and most of the 80’s pop music. It’s kind of ironic, even though I loved the metal of the 80’s, for the most part, I think the music sucked, yet that’s the era I grew up in. If I had a choice, I would pick any other era to have been a teenager in, based solely on the music. The 50’s rock n roll was groundbreaking and rebellious, with pompadours and poodle skirts and classic chevys; the 60’s were all about long hair and burning bras and free love; the 70’s were about bell bottoms and power to the people. All eras I would have given anything to grow up in. But the 80’s??? Bor. Ing. But, I digress….back to my dark side.
Aside from this peace-loving, barefoot idealist, I have another part of me that I don’t show to the world very often. I guess it’s my darker half. Did you ever read that book by Stephen King, The Dark Half? Well, it’s not like that. Not at all, actually, but...it’s just a part of me that loves heavy metal, and toughness and being tough. I first held a gun when I was 7 and by the time I was 9, I was a pretty good shot with a pistol. My arms were never strong enough to be that accurate with a rifle, but I could kick the shit out of some coke cans with a .38. The fact that I knew how to handle a gun made me feel so tough and so proud. “Don’t fuck with me cause I’ll cap your sorry ass!”
When I was in junior high, one of the toughest girls in school wanted to fight me. Funny, I’m friends with her on Facebook now. Anyway, she wanted to fight me, and my dad was pissed. He was actually going to teach me how to box. No daughter of his was gonna get beat up by a bully. Turns out, it was all a misunderstanding and she didn’t want to fight me at all, but my dad was actually going to teach me how to fight. My mother was horrified. I was fuckin pysched up for it, too. I try to hide this violent side of me, but when I listen to metal or some hard core gangsta rap, it makes me feel invincible. And violent. Not that I would ever act on these feelings, but I can talk a good game. Throw in a little Boston accent, I’ll fuck that shit up.
Is it wrong for a white girl from a blue collar suburb to like gansta rap? I mean, how could I possibly identify with lyrics like:
“Straight outta Compton, Crazy mutha fucka named Ice Cube, from the gang called Niggas With Attitudes?”
But for some reason, I love that shit.
“What about the bitch who got shot? Fuck her! You think I give a damn about a bitch, I ain’t a sucker!”
As much as these lyrics mortify the peace-loving hippie side of me, they energize the dark side of me. They give me strength. Power. I want to blare that shit out of my stereo when I listen to it in my car, but I don’t dare. Why? Because I have no right to listen to that music. I'm white. I'm a girl. And I never lived in the ‘hood. Well, ok I lived in the projects with my boyfriend when I was 20, but this was Liberty Ave projects in Woburn, not fucking Compton. Apples and Oranges.
I guess it’s funny sometimes to try and reconcile the different parts of yourself, but who says you have to? I love the hippy chick in me just as much as I love the heavy metal tough ass bitch. I just don’t let one of them come out to play as often as the other.