Adolescence
On the way to the Green Day show I looked at my 11-year-old son in the rear view. "Are you ready to rock?" I asked him. "Yeah. I guess so." This was not a very rocking answer. He looked out the window. I bet he was thinking about Legos. He didn't look remotely rocking.
At the Green Day show, Billie Joe Armstrong demanded that we get off our fucking asses and burn the place down. This seems to have been a turning point in my son's development. I blinked. He became someone else.
He screamed "YEAHHHHH!" from some hidden dark place. It was the deep guttural "yeah" of a pissed off teen, somewhere in his future, clawing and tearing away at his 11-year-old skin. He wanted out. This snake was molting. He pumped his fist in the air and abandoned his body. His whole body morphed into nothing more than a wild reaction to the defiant music. Drums made him jump. He winced at power chords. He was an ecstatic victim of violent rock sadism. You know? I didn't even recognize him. I had no idea who this kid was. Occasionally, he would turn around to look at me. Was he checking on me? Making sure I was still there? Assessing my reaction to the show? No. None of that feels right. I had a vague creeping sensation that what animated his stony gaze was the bubbling desire to kill me.
After the Green Day show, my son wanted to drink 9 beers and bang some chicks. I told him it was late, that we'd better get home. This set him off like a firecracker and he tipped a man over in his wheelchair. I told him "You are taking things too far." Couldn't he ease a little more gently into his youth rebellion? But he said I was stifling his emerging identity and that I would never crush the creative expression of his angst.
Then he creatively expressed his angst by shooting a cop. It seemed to me that he was now just seeking negative attention, so I ignored it. I mean. I get it and all. Shooting a cop was supposed to correlate with a general disrespect for authority but I wasn't gonna let him suck me into a power struggle. I just walked to the car.
The parking lot was a battlefield of explosions. Little dude was hurling Molotov cocktails through windshields and blowing up cars. I told him I was going to have a serious talk with his Mom about all this, but he just laughed. There was some peach fuzz above his upper lip. The whole left side of his face was covered with acne. Damn. That's gonna leave a scar.
I was in the middle of yelling "Young man! Get into the car this instant!" when a silver Lexus exploded and stirred something old in my memory. I stood captivated by the orange eruption and the roiling black smoke. How long had I been so ardently maintaining order? When did my life become such a ceaseless struggle to baton down security?
I grabbed my son's head and rammed it through my driver's side window and we laughed and laughed. He bashed me in the mouth with a baseball bat. Where'd he get a baseball bat? Who cares? It hurt like hell! I spit out a bunch of teeth and smiled. The moon was full and yellow and bursting with approval. We battled on and on like that all throughout the parking lot, urging each other forward with ruthless acts of violence, finding ourselves in strife.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Reader Comments (24)
I have a recurring dream wherein my children, in their creative expression of angst, join the religious right. It's almost the same thing.
Dude. Everything you write is true.
And the blowing up cars thing? I'm with you. You gotta pick your battles.
Really? You got all that from a Green Day concert? Awesome.
Wellll...I'm not bold enough to take my baby girl to see Green Day (although, I am most certainly going). I took her to see No Doubt. One of her friends took her to see britney spears, but once she saw Gwen rock steady, she went home & dyed her hair pink. I think I tossed mine headfirst into teenageriness too...
I tried to get my kid to smash up a Buffalo Wild Wings to Journey last week.
She wouldn't have it.
Sucked.
If you hadn't mentioned curfews, he probably would have stopped at general mayhem.
there you are
Sounds like that post-Rage Against the Machine concert feeling. Glad to hear Green Day is able to bring it out as well.
The first rule of fight club is that you do not talk about fight club. Expect Billy Joe to show at at your front door to school you and once you kick his ass, Tre to come from behind with his drum sticks of death.
I initially read 'emerging identity' as 'emergency identity'.
Which, y'know, suits I guess.
You are fucking brilliant, seriously. Do you have a book?
And you inspired me to comment anonymously; this alter-ego thing is cool.
This reminds me of my first experience with live music: Milli Vanilli.
hmm, you still got it.
:applaud:
6 or 7 years ago, my (then) 15 yr old son came up and said "MOM! I found this AWESOME new band! They're called Pink Floyd!" A little later, he did the same thing with my husband, "DAD! There's this amazing new guitar dude, he's called Santana!" Then we pulled out the vinyl records...
I love that we are now a generation of people who can expose our kids to awesome rock, unlike my parents, who tried to get me excited about Perry Como.
I just got my 6 year old to do the scream in the middle of Beastie Boy's Sabotage. I wept with joy afterwards.
I had a dream about slamming my stepson's (12) head into the side of my car. But I hadn't been to a Green Day concert...funny.
I CANNOT wait to ask my kid whether he's ready to rock....that kid heard alot of great music in utero...include one of the most rockin' White Stripes concerts that ever was....
Fucking awesome.
Also, it reminds me of dinner time at my house.
The first concert my mother took me to was Reba McEntire and there was no fighting involved - not even with drunk cowboys. I feel totally ripped off.
My first concert was Barry Manilow. I had a very different experience after the show.
Alright, the Barry Manilow comment above just wiped whatever else I was gonna say about the post itself. That cracks me up. Maybe if Daddy Geek Boy went to a Green Day concert (back when they first were big), he'd be Daddy Stud Man instead. Woulda coulda shoulda.
I happen to LIKE Barry Manilow.