My Afterglow Moment: I Don’t Give a Damn ‘Bout My Reputation!

Amid perfectionistic tendencies, religious pressures, and an anxiety disorder, I found a healing freedom at femme punk shows.

My Afterglow Moment is a series where staff writers and editors share their favorite music-related memories.

Written by Heather Stewart

Illustrated by Catherine Elizalde

My pocket is empty, my heart is palpitating. I thought not bringing a bag to this concert would be easier. I didn’t have a clear one anyway. Before I left my house, I shoved my phone, ID, and credit card into the small pockets of my jean shorts. Phone, check. Credit card, check. ID … Fuck .. Fuck. Fuck! I was standing in a long line wrapped around the Round Rock Amphitheater. Coming close to the entrance, I read a sign that stated “No ID, no entry.” It’s a 30-minute drive from my house and the Joan Jett & the Blackhearts show, well, the first opener anyway, is starting in five. I retrace my steps in my head. No, I definitely remember having it when I got out of my car. My stomach turns. My palms sweat. I dig my high-top Converse shoes into the dusty earth as my fingertips fidget with one another. Cue the self-deprecation. These tickets were, like, fifty dollars. Oh god. I glance behind me, trying to appear calm and collected. This is so embarrassing.

I feel a tap on my shoulder. Is this yours? A woman with kind eyes extends her hand. There it is, my under-21-license. It had fallen out of my back pocket earlier in line. Thank you! I smiled with relief as I took the plastic and gripped it tight. It’s under control.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m a Virgo or if it’s my anxiety disorder, but to me, control is bliss. I grew up a perfectionist, crying in middle school when I didn’t get A’s. As I grew older, I fought to be perfect according to the religion I was raised in. I am, however, the antithesis, as a queer, left-leaning woman who doesn’t believe in God.

Perfectionism is parasitic, but I hadn’t realized I was hurting myself yet. After moving to Austin at 19 years of age, I started to deconstruct this belief, but unrealistic expectations still clung to me.

Perhaps at 20, as I queue to the area in front of the outdoor stage with old and young concert goers alike, I’m finally overcoming this fear of imperfection. Lush trees crown the stage, and the darkening sky is clear. There’s not a lot of control in doing something for the first time, especially independently. As the ever-growing crowd gathers around, I giggle to myself, remembering the text Dad sent me when I told him I was going to this show.

Humor has always been a coping mechanism of mine. I feel my body ease out of stiff anticipation as a group of fellow college-aged women make small talk with me. They’re UT Austin students too. Great, I’m making friends. This is fun. The first opener finishes their set.

I was familiar with the second opener, Fea, a Latina punk band I had started listening to at the start of my riot grrrl phase, which I’m still very much in. Yes, I’m a meticulous Virgo sun, but I’m also an angsty Aries moon, so 18 years of pressure had built up quite a bit of bubbling resentment. It felt good to scream along to the discography of Bikini Kill, Mommy Long Legs and other riot grrrl bands in the privacy of my Honda Civic. In public, though …

As Fea’s members shred their guitars and belt screaming lyrics of empowerment, I try to dance along — but I feel awkward as the older crowd is more tame than typical punk concert-goers. I take a few videos for memories and sing along quietly to the songs I know. Between shows, I realize my phone battery is running low. It’s fine, I’ll put it on low battery mode. Under control. It’s not long before Joan Jett enters the stage filling the air with her legendary punk-rock glory. I feel myself and the crowd loosen up and embrace rebellion as she performs the iconic “Bad Reputation.” Later, after dancing and shouting along to hits like “Cherry Bomb” and “I Love Rock N’ Roll,” I find myself tearing up as Jett performs “Crimson and Clover,” which, for me, is a queer anthem.

My feelings of embarrassment, awkwardness and anxiety were replaced with an unashamed vulnerability as the riotous music allowed me to exist in my fluctuating emotions. Earlier that year, I had finally come out to my parents and stopped identifying as a Christian; I was doing what I wanted. It was all building up to this moment of freedom in femme punk at some random venue in the outskirts of Austin. Okay maybe that’s a bit dramatic, but the outpouring of raw, unfiltered, and imperfect fervor was healing.

After the show ends, I say goodbye to my new friends and realize my phone died. My anxiety didn’t magically go away. This is real life. Night has fallen and I’m a young woman, all alone, surrounded by grown men (and women, but I was focused on the men for once). Naturally I take a moment to think about the worst case scenario, as one with an anxiety disorder does.

I finally build up the courage to walk out to the parking lot, repeatedly hitting my lock button in order to make a beep because I, of course, cannot not remember where I parked. After 15 minutes, which felt like hours inside my anxious brain, I finally make it to my car safely. Sure, the situation was out of my control, but I am okay.

I’m now 23 years old, and nothing is in my control. I’m about to graduate into a collapsing economy, the environment is a mess, and I still forget to charge my phone. I could list everything else wrong with the world here but then I’d exceed the word count.

Since the Joan Jett & The Blackhearts show, I’ve gone to various different concerts, both alone and with friends. Often more intimate and DIY than Joan Jett’s, the shows I go to now are often at co-op parties or smaller local venues, featuring punk Austin bands like Die Spitz and Farmer’s Wife. I love moshing at femme punk shows in particular, swapping sweat and feelings with other women and nonbinary people. I still remember overcoming my slight claustrophobia at the Mannequin Pussy and Pinkshift show, laughing and screaming and dancing at the front of the pit the whole time. I have also expanded my reservoir of girl-punk music, replacing my avoidant, perfectionist coping mechanisms with the free-flowing catharsis of feminine screeches, roaring electric guitars, and honest, messy lyricism. Now, the only thing I spend time perfecting is my playlists.