From that day on, I have used her wisdom to help me grow, and now I tell of a recent experience I may have never encountered if it wasn't for that peculiar woman who shared a valuable secret with me.
As my friends and I go to my first punk rock concert, I can feel my stomach begin to twitch, like a cold wet dog. The nervousness of getting into a line with what seems like a thousand people, makes me feel as if my bones are made of jello. I never imagined I would be standing with a group of people that I would have never associated with. It is scary almost horrifying. A young boy, about sixteen, standing beside me frowns miserably, like a beaten child full of anger. I can see the pain in his grey, sorrowful eyes. I felt for him as his own mother wanting to comfort him. His skinny weak arm wrapped loosely in a heavy, black, leather jacket drapes across a young girl who shares his emotions. She is dressed in a small, tight, black outfit, exposing her body to the world like a prostitute on Colfax. As I look around, I feel out of place. I am not a punk only dressed like one. I feel like a white sheep in a black field. Other people of all ages are in line. Some of them were loud and crazy, yet some were quiet and reserved, like a bomb waiting to explode. I do not perceive their thoughts or fears, but I realize why society looks down on them.
As I approach the gates to hell, a big bulky bouncer frisks me. I can see some of the peoples bodies loosen up to the faint sound of the music. Inside the music becomes loud and piercing. It almost deafens me. I am not even in the main room, yet I can feel the hard, fast beat in my chest. Finding the music hard to understand, I can almost grasp the meaning in my heart. Looking around, I realize all of their stress and anger they have built up behind those hatred eyes. Deep down, I know that they are just like me, dealing with problems in their own way. The music is disorganized and violent, making me want to run away, and yet making me curious to know what attracts this type of people.
In the main room, I see a sight that I had only heard about. Many of the people are in front of the stage, like caged animals. They are throwing their bodies upon each other, like a psycho in a rubber room. From the stage, where members of the crashed mob were climbing onto, people began jumping into the crowd, trusting the others to catch them. Awed at the site of this ritual, I approached the mosh pit ( this is the name they called the mob of people.) Entering carefully, like a baby learning to crawl, I am thrown in hard. I hit a tall man backing in my direction. I am tossed to the hard, cold, cement floor. From out of nowhere a dozen hands reach down to pick me up. Climbing to my feet, I am back in the chaotic action. I began to realize that they are not here to hurt each other, but to just let go, as if they were jumping out of an airplane. Fighting my way to the stage, the smell of spoiled sweat reeks like rotting fruit. As I climb on stage many friendly hands give me one final push. I am overwhelmed by the heat generating from the lights and the band members instruments. It feels like I am standing in the bright open sun with a very bad sunburn. Suddenly and without warning, I am tossed into the pit. I am instantly carried around by this octopus of many tentacles. I feel that I have trust in these people, as I would in my own family. Letting me fall gradually back on my feet into the violent ocean, I am then thrown back and forth, like a drop in a wave. I feel sweat trickle down my brow as a drippy faucet would. I realize that I may not choose this to be my life style, but they do accept me into their large family of friends.
Thinking back to the lady on the train, I realize she was right. Why be sheltered like a caged rabbit, when you can soar with eagles? These people may not be my group of eagles, but they are with their own group. They shouldn't be overlooked or put down. Inside, we are all different. We just have our own group of eagles.
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