hey witchypoo

Sophomore year of high school my metamorphosis began. I ditched the swim team along with school and dyed my hair blue black. Soon after, I pierced my nose which was shocking to many at my high school back in the 1980s. I began wearing all black outfits to school paired with some combat boots, an ankh necklace and thick black eyeliner mimicking the eyes of Siouxsie Sioux.

By junior year, the change was complete. The new style got me attention. When my best friends and I would walk by all decked out in black, sometimes we could hear whispers. “They’ll put a spell on you.” With eager hand wringing curiosity, we bought a book on Wicca and pledged to only do white magic. But in truth, the only magic we really attempted was reading our fortunes with tarot cards and pouring over horoscopes and astrology books at the Crystal Cave in Claremont. We were a coven like in “The Craft” without any spells, potions or powers.

In truth, I really was more of a poser Catholic witch who was more style than substance and one who was really into the dark wave of music by The Cure, Joy Division, The Smiths, Siouxsie and the Banshees and Sisters of Mercy along with UK punk bands like The Sex Pistols and the Buzzcocks.

My mom was horrified by my change in style and would say disdainfully, “You look ridiculous, why do you dress like that?” Dad was more gentle and would say, “Jenny (he always called me by my nickname Jenny), don’t dye your hair so dark, it’s pretty brown.”

What no one understood however, was that my change from goody two shoes to goth like punk princess, was not about my outside. It was about my insides. It was interior not exterior, the change I mean. I recognized way back then, although I was never educated about it until years later, that I had a melancholy sensibility. Add in punk rock anarchy and there was no way not to change. Ultimately, when I found the art (namely, music) that touched off that spark in me, and hit a nerve, there was no going back.

Homecoming, in my mom’s opinion, was a disaster from the pictures. She didn’t appreciate my shiny luminescent black dress with lace sleeves that would make any goth girl swoon. She hated my blue black hair curled in waves and my stud earring in one nostril. And my makeup! Black eyeliner lined so thick on the upper lid that it would take days to come off. And bright red lipstick.

Mom wailed, “How can I show these pictures to my friends?” I should have responded, “I am, and will always remain, inside and sometimes out, punk rock girl.”