THE ARMOR OF COOL

The moment I arrived home from the hospital to our moldy little rental ranch in Pine Neck, all pink and squirming, my father put big white 70’s headphones on my tiny, bald head to make sure Led Zeppelin was one of my first memories. He had a clear idea of who he wanted me to be, like an accessory to his cool suit. Over the years, every once in a while, there would be a phone call from him, which was typically about making sure my brother and I weren’t driving cars with automatic transmissions (uncool) and that we were always listening to cool music. He never held us. Not when he lived with us, and not after he left. He was incredibly aloof, always drunk and high, playing the guitar while making mysterious, distorted faces, and giving us sips of his Heinekens. Our safety and well-being were never his concern — his cool armor was so thick, he couldn’t even see us. After his decade-long opioid addiction, he briefly talked about his mother not having been qualified to be a parent, being ignored, neglected, and isolated. There was definitely more to the story, but he’d just change the subject or fade away if we asked. My mother’s opinion was that he was just spoiled and selfish, and that his parents gave him every material thing he could ever want. There’s significance to this conflict that I’ll circle back to in a minute.

My mother had her own quirky brand of cool. ‘Sexy, independent single mom’ was her whole identity. Red stilettos, braless Norma Kamali jumpsuits, Opium perfume, Stevie Nicks, Marlboro Lights, chardonnay, and weekend-long adventures at Oceans and Talkhouse. We were her beautiful, obedient children, part of her costume of identity — until we weren’t. She needed a lot of male attention, and every few months, a new boyfriend would start awkwardly hanging around, as she overshared what they’d been up to the night before, and we covered our ears in protest. There were men, but she had no true friends — she was incredibly lonely under the facade, and brutally judgmental, two sides of the same coin. As soon as we started developing our own personalities, and we weren’t pretty accessories anymore, we’d be shut out. Locked out of the house, ridiculed, rejected, ‘you’re just like your father. ’ Over the years, pieces of her pain shone through the cracks. She told us she was molested as a baby, and was completely mute until the 1st grade, neglected by a mother with mental health issues, and had to fight for food with her siblings as there was never enough for all 5 of them. She watched her kitten get pulled from her hands and eaten by a neighbor’s dog right in front of her, was molested again by a different relative, and witnessed some awful things in relation to her parents. In 1st grade, before she began to talk, she learned to sing. Her music teacher gave her lessons, she started singing in local churches, then took the train into NYC to sing in churches there, until the whole town knew her as ‘the girl with the voice of an angel’.

They say that Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD) happens when, in childhood, someone experiences both intense neglect and intense doting. This conflict, and the subsequent confusion about self-worth, is what creates an obsession with being perceived and the need to wear a precise costume of identity to get the reaction/attention you want from other people. This phenomenon is exactly what both of my parents experienced — it’s what brought them together, it’s what tore them apart, and it’s what burdened me and my brother with the struggles that ensued for the rest of our lives. The struggles we dressed up in ‘cool’.

We were hurt, rejected, and abandoned by both parents, one physically, the other emotionally. Typical Gen X kids. But were we cool? We had stick shift 4WD trucks, lifts, sound systems, dirty stay-outs, trouble makers, 120mph down Napeague stretch at 4 in the morning, car crashes, motorcycle crashes, near death experiences, alcohol poisoning, Schott jackets, Acme boots, donuts in front of Talkhouse, blowing lines in dirty bathrooms, Norm at the bar, NORM!!! They started a new program for me at EHHS called PINS (Persons In Need of Supervision), and I fit the bill perfectly. I got knocked up 4 times in my teens. I had someone creep up on me in a very compromising position, take photos, print them out, and pass them all around the school. I was bullied relentlessly by the same group of girls, skipped classes almost daily, and only graduated because I transferred schools halfway through my senior year. That rebel camaraderie we reminisce about? We treated each other terribly, cheating and lying and worse, because we were all more concerned with our own armor than the well-being of each other. I, quite literally and figuratively, was trying to throw myself in the garbage to die. I felt like that’s what I deserved. When I finally took an HIV test in the early 90’s I was sure I would have it because I deserved it and that would be my end. I was incredibly lucky. I wished someone, anyone, had recognized that all this behavior was due to crippling anxiety and dangerously low self-worth, and not just rebellion, but maybe those things are actually one and the same — anxiety and rebellion. Underneath the armor, I felt unlovable at my core. I was ashamed of my actions, ashamed of existing in a vulnerable meat suit, pained to have other people’s eyes on me, desperately needing approval from anywhere. I felt unworthy of anyone’s love and deserving of all the pain, but when I dressed up, got high, and went out to find attention, all of that went away for a little while. Was I cool? Maybe, I’m not sure, it depends on what you think it means.

When I made the Bonac Kids video, it was only part of the story. The part that looked clean and cool from the outside, Bonac Kids as victims of circumstance, as cool, communing rebels — and it resonated with so many, but the flip side of that coin is an essential piece of the puzzle. The pain, the regret, the shame. What is ‘cool’ anyway? John Bender in the Breakfast Club with cigar burns up and down his arms? Hurting. This is what the ‘uncool’ kids aspire to? Honestly, I’m overjoyed to watch Gen Z embracing awkwardness in all its forms and staying home to indulge in self-care. There’s a narrative out there that Gen X is cooler than other generations, and I suppose that all depends on what we agree the word actually means. We might want to rethink how we perceive cool, and instead of mimicking or envying, we should be bringing the cool kids a cup of tea and asking them if they’re ok.

Over and out.
Stay tuned for Chapter 2.