Lets Do the Time Warp Again.....

This was a piece I had to write recently for a class I was taking. Its a personal narrative about my misspent youth.I think it turned out pretty well.

The Time Warp

Recently, I was instant messaging with a group of friends. My friend Darrie announced that he was once again a brunette, having been blonde for some time now. I commented that the last picture I’d seen of him had involved pink hair. In mock outrage, Darrie contradicted me. “It was magenta, I’ll have you know.” That sparked a memory of the character Magenta from Rocky Horror Picture Show. With a laugh, I broke into a round of, “Let’s do the time warp again…..” which is the refrain from the movie’s signature song, “The Time Warp.” Darrie immediately recognized the lyrics and exclaimed, “Lu, I love that movie.” We were off, quoting the song and movie, though Darrie was infinitely more adept at it than I. I’ve not seen the movie for years. But the conversation took me back to the first time I’d ever seen it.

I was sixteen, and attended a private girls’ school about a 45 minute drive from my home. I resented the drive, the isolation of where I lived, and the uniforms I was forced to wear; pretty much the entire experience. So I did what most malcontent teens do. I practiced passive aggressive guerrilla warfare. I cut my hair in what would now be referred to as a mullet, but was in those days called a Butch. The sides were shaved, the top was about an inch high and kept spiked, and the back portion was longer, down past my shoulders. I wore what was referred to as punk makeup, too. It consisted of electric colored eye shadow, heavy eyeliner and gobs of thick black mascara. This was complimented by streaks of hot pink blush across my cheek bones. It was, after all, the 80’s, and it was a popular look: everywhere except convent girls’ preparatory schools. My passive aggression didn’t limit itself to my hair and makeup. My left ear had seven piercings, my right ear had four. I wore one earring that reached down to my left shoulder, and an assortment of colored studs and hoops in the other holes. My clothes were outrageous as well. Needless to say I drew a lot of attention in those days. But it was my look and I wore it proudly.

I was also rebellious in my behavior, though I tended more towards the sneaking around than the outright defiance. So, when my girlfriend, Lucia suggested we go to see Rocky Horror Picture Show, I was all for it. The only theater showing it in Cincinnati was downtown, on the Skywalk, in a less than desirable section of town. And it was only shown at midnight. My parents, had they known, would have absolutely forbidden the adventure. Lucia’s mother was a lot more lenient. And of course, being teenagers, we took full advantage of that leniency.

Lucia’s mother dropped us off at the nearest entrance to the Skywalk, an elevated walkway connecting stores, theaters and restaurants. In those days, it ran around the perimeter of the Cincinnati business district. It was always crowded with people who wanted to avoid walking on the streets. Lucia and I, done up in our punk attire, made our way to the theater, excited about seeing the movie for the first time. We had heard enough about it from friends to have some idea of what was going to go on. We had come prepared with toast and rice to throw at the wedding scene, water guns for the rain scene, and various other trappings we’d been told were necessary for the full viewing experience.

What we weren’t prepared for was the costumes. The majority of people there were regular viewers. They came dressed as Frank N. Furter, Riff Raff, Magenta, even Janet and Brad. They looked at us, and exclaimed, “Love your costume! But, who are you?” To this day I laugh at that. Ever cheeky I replied, “Just me.” Perplexed, they couldn’t remember that character in the movie.

It was such a strange experience for me. I wasn’t quite sure how to deal with the fact that I was being accepted for my outrageous dress and behavior. Only, I was being accepted for the wrong reasons. My acceptance was based on a total misconception. It made me feel like an imposter, really. I was afraid that people thought I was trying to fit in, and had dressed that way to do so, even though I had obviously gotten it wrong. I didn’t match a single character in the film. Once again, I felt uncomfortable as a result of my attire, but in a whole new way.
Its odd how often that incident, 25 years later, comes to mind. I think about how odd a place I was in, emotionally, at that age. I wanted to be accepted, and yet I dressed and acted in a manner that pretty much guaranteed I wouldn’t be accepted, at least by those I typically came into contact with. Yet, that one magical night when I was embraced by a portion of the fringe of society, I resisted, feeling an imposter. I wanted that acceptance to be true and honest, not a mistake.

That incident comes to mind, I suppose, because even as an adult, I have those conflicted feelings. I want to be accepted, but by those who really understand me. I don’t want to change myself to fit in, but I don’t want to fit in because I’m perceived to be something other than what I am. When asked, “Who are you?”, as I was all those years ago, I want to answer honestly, “Just me.”