During my new wave period back in the eighties I used to get all kinds of dirty stares and comments from people because of the way I looked. Granted I was living in Texas, but I was living in Dallas, Texas. Dallas is one of the
ten largest cities in the United States.
|
"If I lived in a culture that didn't demonize sex I would be praised and appreciated. If I was on the planet Nebulon I would be their queen." |
One would think folks would be a little less uptight about mere fashion in such a supposedly cosmopolitan location, but they weren’t. Mothers would pull their children close as I passed them on the street. Cars would drive by and yell obscenities at me as I walked down the sidewalk. I saw hatred in people’s eyes and I wasn’t even that extreme. I didn’t have safety pins piercing my face or studs around my neck. I was a new waver and relatively tame compared to the punks.
Just the same, there were times I feared for my safety because the rest of the world couldn’t handle my disrespect for the gods of normalcy.
Those days helped prepare me for these days. During my fashionista period I learned how to avoid most hostile situations. I lived in the tolerant gay neighborhood. I shopped and worked where artists and musicians hung out. I didn’t go to North Dallas where they wouldn’t understand me. I didn’t look for jobs that clashed with my wardrobe. I socialized with people who
understood me. I avoided people who were so fucked up they let my over-teased hair ruin their day.
Others like me weren’t as lucky. The other punks and wavers I knew led double lives. They’d flatten their mowhawks, take out their piercings and don drab clothes during the day. Then each night they’d Jell-O up their do’s, line their eyes and slip on their dog collars to play in the safety of the dark. I had lots of friends who were assaulted just because they were in the wrong place wearing the wrong clothes.
I was an average white girl with a moderately liberal upbringing. I could have toned it down back then and probably gotten very far in the fast-lane eighties. I could have spent Saturday nights drinking at TGI-Friday’s and waking up Sunday mornings with SMU frat boys. I could have droned away at the preppie life with its need for BMW’s, cocaine and bad sex. But seeing things from the eyes of a punkette pissed me off.
I liked the way I looked and I was a perfectly charming person. A little thing like crazy hair, cat-eye makeup and a high chin could incite deep enmity and that intrigued me. I chose to rattle cages as a lifestyle and I did it well and suffered minimal trauma because of it.
When Elizabeth Taylor started spiking her hair I realized the fun was over and gave up the new-waver thing. But I kept the lessons I learned from being a social pariah.
Untitled Page
Now I’m a real social pariah and you are too. We’re right up there with terrorists and drug dealers, just above hackers and thieves. People fucking hate us. Some want us to die horrible deaths and many more are assured we will burn in the afterlife. It would be lovely if we could breeze about our lives unaffected by the stigma of our profession, but we can’t.
We have to live in our neighborhoods, shop at our local markets and bank at our banks. So many of us have children. We all have friends or family. There are people in our lives whose approval affects us personally and sometimes economically.
If I were younger and didn’t have a family who depends on me I’d be louder and prouder. I’d shout to the rooftops: "I’m a pornographer and damn proud of it!" If I lived in a bigger city I could live more anonymously. If I lived in a culture that didn’t demonize sex I would be praised and appreciated. If I was on the planet Nebulon I would be their queen.
I say this all as a message of caution. You may be perfectly fine with what you do but there’s so many who aren’t. It’s one thing to share your life with family and friends but what about your banker or your kid’s schoolteacher? How ready are you to reveal yourself to people who can negatively impact your reality? Your landlord, your neighbor and even your own family may react badly to your choice to work in adult entertainment. The damage to your fate could be devastating if the wrong person thinks you’re doing the wrong thing for a living.
I’m not ashamed of what I do but I’m not going to be naive about it either. Millions and millions of people think I’m the personification of evil and I can’t wish that way. I’ll take a stand but I’ll pick my battles.
My family knows what I do. My close friends know what I do. Assorted people who are open to my job choice know what I do. To everyone else, I’m a writer. To the exceptionally nosey, I’m a technical writer. I have a post office box for all my business-related snail mail. I bank on the Internet. I drive the speed limit and I keep my yard clean. I behave myself in public and keep my work separate from my home life.
In some ways we have it easier than I did as a new waver. I used to stand out just walking outside my door. Now I live and look like everyone else. Well, except for the tongue stud but I’m willing to risk it.