My iPod has been refilled. On the bus ride back to Jerusalem, I reflected what music meant to me as a teenager. A symbol of rebellion and confusion. High- energy and shaved head, my friends advertised their bands on the bumpers of their cars, I advertised my love for music with patches on my coat sleeve.
In my teen angst diary, I would record every concert I ever went to and where. Pogo’ing up a sweat and envying tattooed women with drum sticks. Tattooed women with crazy hair. Plaid patterns and fishnets, studded belts and black rimmed glasses.
My hair is long now. I have political views that doesn’t include anarchy in the middle of the sentence. Now my musical tastes are not advertised on my body or hair. They are hidden inside this thin, red rectangle. And if you wanna see me pogo with excitement. Just turn on the food channel.
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