THE PUNK YEARS

I suppose it was too much to ask that my wife and I could skate by without being touched by the Punk years. We had chosen to send our four kids to a nice Catholic school reasoning that if they were provided a solid foundation in right and wrong they would be well equipped to withstand the barrage of social pressures they would face as teenagers. I will refrain from using names or gender here to protect them in the event their kids read this one day but there were some detours from what we deemed to be the right course to adulthood.

One of the four sailed through with no hint of knowing what Punk was, other than having an affinity for and the talent to do an award winning imitation of Billy Idol. One showed no outward signs of Punkism other than getting weak at the knees at the sight of any entertainer with a leather jacket and spiked hair. The other two were a different matter. They became so engrossed in the movement that we thought we had a couple of space aliens living with us. As usual, being the Dad, I was the last to know what was happening.

Working very hard at the time and putting in many hours in our family business, I was not tuned in to what was going on at home. Looking back, the early signs were there but I was oblivious. The first signs were that they were going a little heavy with the eye makeup, something that could easily slip by a Dad. The Mom no, but I shrugged off her concerns. I guess the next thing was a definite wardrobe shift to black. It was a sweat shirt here, skirt there, when all of a sudden it was “If it isn’t black, I’m not wearing it.” Then there were little touches here and there such as shaving the side of the head above the ears. The hair color was next beginning with subtle little streaks of pink, red and blue (one day they brought home a friend named Teresa Blue Hair). When the hair became the color of charcoal I knew something was amiss.

Trailing along just behind the new look was a new attitude. Not so much me but they began to look at my wife like “Who are you to tell me what to do?” They had this defiant, dagger eyed look that parents of teenagers know all too well. Posters began appearing on their bedroom walls of bands with God awful names. Friends that came by to pick them up were always “waiting in the car”. Combine this attitude with the all black Punk look, throw in a little Gothic and a no smile face the color of someone who has been in a cave their whole life and you have a real thing of beauty.

Miraculously, we weathered the storm. I am not sure how but I am sure there was a great deal of luck involved. They tell stories at our family parties that I am hearing for the first time. Given the intervening years, they are hilarious now. Had I known about them at the time I would have flung myself over a cliff. Now they are happy, contented adults that my wife and I are immensely proud of. Our social life revolves around our family and they are our best friends. They include us in their lives, which enrich ours beyond belief.