Ah, the good old days. Circa 2010, seventh grade me was clothed in Hot Topic band tees, wore way too much eyeliner and lusted over Pete Wentz (and low key hated Ashlee Simpson). I still have my high top converse covered in Panic! At The Disco and Never Shout Never lyrics high up in my closet next to my box of rubber wristbands and Warped Tour memorabilia. Looking back, my emo phase was definitely the most embarrassing phase I went through, but I know I’m not alone. After the fact, I’m glad it happened; it taught me some important life lessons that I wouldn’t have learned otherwise.
Like maybe wearing black pencil eyeliner all over my eyes and no other makeup isn’t the best look for me. Maybe that N.Y.C. pencil eyeliner half an inch thick on my upper lash line, on my waterline, and on my lower lash line didn’t accentuate my features as well as I thought it did. Plus, my perpetually watering eyes made me look like a rabid raccoon by noon, and unfortunately, the raccoon eyes didn’t take away from the acne and redness all over my face either. At least I never had braces.
I learned how powerful music can be. The bands I listened to in junior high don’t speak to me on a spiritual level anymore, but back then is the first time music ever did resonate with me. Ever since my emo phase, my love for music has skyrocketed; I’m able to deeply listen to lyrics, understand and connect with the songs. I don’t think I’d have that ability or interest if I didn’t obsess over artists who only sang about being depressed and heartbreak instead of the happy-go-lucky pop music on the radio.
My emo phase is what compelled me to start writing. I thank those songs that were melancholy at best for aiding me in developing my style and taste as a poet. I’ve discovered that my favorite pieces, whether I’ve written or read them, have the same tones and themes as the emo songs I cried and tumblr-ed to back in the day (side note: I used to fall asleep listening to screamo music. How the hell...?). Emo is, after all, short for emotional, and boy, can I get emotional.
I learned that my mom might actually always be right. As a tween, I resented my mother for not allowing me to dye my hair purple, get my lip pierced and wear plaid skinny jeans, suspenders and spiked bracelets. I insisted this wasn’t a phase, and she insisted it was. She was right. But god, Mom, couldn’t you have taught me how to properly apply eyeliner?!
Here I am, a freshman in college, a sorority girl, not even close to being labeled “alternative.” Isn’t that funny? Could I be even more different than I was six years ago? Growing up, everyone goes through phases, whether it be a sporty girl phase, a weird mute phase, a hippie phase, an emo phase or another nuanced phase one could go through.
As an 18-year-old, I could still be going through a phase right now; I don’t know exactly who I am yet, and that’s OK. I don’t think I’m going back to being an emo kid anytime soon though.
