Much to my surprise, it didn’t hurt at all. I had a real earring! I felt my character grow by half. When I walked out, I felt everyone staring at my ear. Everyone I met stared at my ear. The bus driver stared. I thought I felt the gaze of everyone on the bus directed at my ear. It was amazing! I went through my room and took hold of everything that was childish or not punk. Some of it I threw away; the rest I put in a closet. I hung up the poster of Nina Hagen and the newspaper clippings I’d collected.
Next, I went carefully through my clothes, picking and cutting. I junked most of them. I held onto some jeans, T-shirts, and long-sleeve shirts. I got the jeans and rubbed at the knees with coarse sandpaper until the material gave out and I had ripped knees. I cut the cuffs off the long-sleeved shirts. Then I went over everything with black markers and drew an A in a circle here and there and wrote “Anarchy” and band names I felt were right.
But I needed a decent coat. Punks didn’t usually wear windbreakers. They had leather jackets. Problem was, I didn’t own one. I called Óli for information on where I could get a leather jacket cheap. Óli said I could have his brother Friðjón’s old leather jacket. I ran over to his house in my newly-cut T-shirt and got my jacket. It wasn’t a real leather jacket; it was made of artificial leather. And it wasn’t black, but brown, with cuffs. It wasn’t the right style, but beggars obviously can’t be choosers. I cut the cuffs off it and tore off the toggle that adjusted the fit.
I put on my gear and went to where Mom sat playing solitaire.
“Good God! What have you done now, child?”
“This is punk,” I said resolutely.
Mom sighed deeply and shook her head.
“Can I have some money?”
She went back to solitaire and said, downcast as usuaclass="underline"
“Ask your Dad.”
That was something I wanted to avoid at all costs.
“I can’t be bothered to talk to him. Can’t you let me have some money?”
“Why do you need money?”
She didn’t look up from her game.
“I want to buy patches and an album.”
“What will it cost?”
I mentioned the amount. Mom thought for a while, then heaved a sigh and got to her feet. She took out her wallet and handed me the money.
“Here you go.”
“Thank you.”
I was grateful not to have to talk to Dad and ask him for money. He would never let me have money to buy patches or albums. I had to lie to him that I was going to the movies, then stretch out my hand towards him and let him hold me there in his firm grip, stroking my cheek as he whispered and muttered something I couldn’t hear although I nodded my head anyway and smiled in a friendly way like I was a really good kid. He’d even started talking about the break-in and how inconvenient it was for him, and I had to promise not to do it again. And I promised beautifully, not because I meant it, but because I was suffocating and wanted to get away from him as quickly as I could.
I took the bus down to Hlemmur and went to the only store on Laugavegur that sold tags. It was a variety store, specializing in products for kids and teenagers. An old Arab ran the shop. It stocked everything between heaven and earth, all kinds of fashion clothes, posters, spiked belts, patches, logos, and incense — but also stink bombs and practical jokes. I’d often been to this store, usually just to look around and fantasize. Sometimes I bought things. Once I bought a fake turd. That was a source of endless pleasure until it was confiscated by teachers at school. I’d also often bought stink bombs, which I then threw through windows or put through the mail slots of people who had annoyed me.
The store had wised up to this new era and had become a true punk heaven. It had everything a punk could have dreamed of: pants that had been torn apart and put back together with safety pins and real leather jackets with thick, red linings. And patches. On one side were cloth patches you sewed onto your clothes and on the other breastpins or brooches you pinned to yourself.
I looked at everything carefully and asked the prices. The Arab responded in his exotic accent with a wise, patient demeanor.
After much speculation, I bought a Crass patch with the anarchy sign to sew on my clothes and three small buttons: one that said SEX PISTOLS, one that said FUCK THE SYSTEM, and one with a picture of The Clash. Then I bought several iron spikes to attach to my clothes. I couldn’t afford any more since I also had to buy an album. I fastened the iron spikes to my leather jacket, put on my buttons, and sauntered out to the record shop.
I could afford just one album. I looked through all the punk albums in the shop carefully and listened to them. I took care not to buy an album I could borrow from Óli. Also, most of the records only had one good song on them. I listened to Sham 69. They were fairly popular. I wasn’t a big fan. The Dead Kennedys had a few good songs like “California Über Alles” and “Too Drunk to Fuck,” but I still didn’t think it was worth buying the whole album.
After careful consideration, I decided to buy Inflammable Material by Stiff Little Fingers. I’d seen a program about them on TV. They were from Northern Ireland and seemed to have fairly strong opinions on life and existence. That carried a lot of weight — plus the lyrics came with the album. But what determined that I bought this album rather than another one was that the lead singer was wearing glasses. He had square steel-frame glasses like I did, and I immediately felt a connection with him.
There weren’t many punks in Fossvogur. There were many who liked the music yet who weren’t willing to go all the way, like the girl in the convenience store in Akureyri. They wore normal clothes but owned albums by punk bands. Then there were the fake punks. They thought they could be punks by listening to the music, but they lacked the core mentality, i.e., they’d neither given up on the future, nor were they furious at the system. For these people, punk was just a superficial, entertaining fashion. They even listened to Adam Ant and considered him a punk. They usually had no interest in anarchism, and I didn’t want anything to do with them. You had to be careful of fake punks. For me, punk wasn’t a fad but a lifestyle. The clothes were a surefire way to be part of a definite group and to make it possible for other punks to recognize me. They were also a firm statement and expression of one’s state of mind and ideology. What mattered to me most was the deep meaning of what it was to be a punk. That meant being an outsider, incompatible with the masses, dreaming that one day I would be dead in peace, no longer needing to take part in any fucking shit. Anarchism was a strong part of it. To the normal world, I was a dangerous freak — ugly, stupid, silly. But in the world of punk rock, I was an equal — attractive, intelligent, exciting. Punk gave my life purpose. The rules no longer defined me. According to punk rock’s terms, I could do what I wanted. I could write without someone making fun of it when I wrote badly. It was punk to write badly. I could play the guitar without having learned it. I could say and do things the system rejected because punk rejected the system. Punk rebelled against the system and against systematic thought. The system I knew best was the school system. I hated it, and I feared all systems that might be trying to force me into a future. I hated everyone who lived by the rules. I hated the values that deemed desirable that which I didn’t know and held all my qualities worthless. The system wanted to peg me as an abnormal deviation. I didn’t belong in the school system. But I didn’t belong with the dunces, either. The system thought I was stupid, but I wasn’t. Perhaps I was simply too smart for the system. The Punk overcomes the system: I realized I didn’t have to learn all their damn rules. I didn’t believe half the crap. I saw no point in learning math or Danish. I didn’t care about other people’s opinions of me. I refused to keep letting others define me. Punk delivered me from all the invisible demands on which school, Mom, and Dad insisted. I wanted to express myself, talk and even scream. I wanted to tear myself free. I wanted peace. Punk was a ship setting off from a boring shore, and I jumped on board toward a new adventure.