Being Puerto Rican growing up wasn't easy. The problem was we didn't look or act like the typical PR's from the Bronx. We were not the stereotypical short, dark skin, big moustache kind of folks. We were tall, white and some of us had hazel eyes. So we didn't fit into the black community or the white segments of our neighborhood. My older sister and younger sister chose the black community anyway, and I went to the dark side of the force and got into metal and eventually I became a punk.
I couldn't afford Doc Martens so I borrowed my step dad's cowboy boots. I didn't have a letter jacket, so I used an old military fatigue coat that was way too big. I couldn't have a Mohawk because my mom wouldn't let me, so I got it as close as she would allow and kept the middle long. My friends called it a barnhawk and I hung out with all sorts of other punks. Who knew there were different types. Peace punks, anarchist, skin heads. Back then what you were served to identify what part of the pit you hung out in. Only those really brave and insane went to the center. My one and only time was at old CBGB's.
I definitely identified more with Anglos than black folk. My stepfather was black, my neighbors were black, I guess the rebel in me sent me to the white side. From my early teens it was about blond (Ahh Melissa M) girls, and rock and roll. There were times I had fantasies of becoming a singer in a punk rock band, but before any of that materialized my mother moved us back to Puerto Rico. I left my culture, my new identity and the love of my life at the time on Long Island. Where the F was I headed to?
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