I believe in a healthy dose of angst. The scraggly teenage punk with a piercing for every year they’ve been on this planet and sense of, “just get in my way, I dare you,” in their stride — I believe in them. If they’re like me, or like I was at their age, they’re still trying to figure out exactly what they’re angry about. They’ll find labels, empty causes to pin their angst to like they pin the buttons of their favorite bands to their backpack — bands that sing about the flaws in capitalism and religion, democracy and blind obedience. These lyrics, with their sweeping generalizations, will seep into their mind and fill them with a sense that, though they can’t put their finger on it, something is wrong here.
I wrote dark, angry poetry in high school, stuff I’d never let anyone read now. It was a healthy outlet for my angst, probably stopped me from burning down a building, but most importantly it was honest. Those horrid high school poems could be the most honest things I’ve ever written. Ringing with generalities and abstractions, they were groping meandering messes, but so was I.
Doodling anarchy signs during Latin class, I thought about the structure I felt forced into: school until career, work until death. My pen pressing into the wooden top of those old wraparound desks left dark indentations as it parted the grain. The little black scars etched outlines of skating company logos like “Rise Above,” or punk rock catch phrases like “Question Everything.” It’s difficult to appreciate the architecture of a society when you feel like you’re caught in its scaffolding.
After awhile, my pierced friend with the backpack covered in buttons for the Ramones and Bad Religion, Ill Repute and Anti Flag will wind their way through their own maze of rebellion. And maybe this is the key: The angst isn’t so much what creates the maze as it is the force that drives them through it. Because there is something wrong with our world. A lot of things are wrong with our world. And all of that teenage angst is really just the flashing of adolescent warning signs hidden in our hormones saying that trouble lies ahead. It’s what forces us up from the comforts and conveniences provided by our modern society to look outside and examine the machine that is producing them. And after all that wandering, they’ll have shaken off a button or two and will be left with what’s important to them, what they’re really willing to fight for or against.
So, when I pass one of my young tattooed friends today, though it’s been years since I made it out of my own maze and discovered those things in the world that I’m willing to fight to change, I’ll try to breathe in a little bit of their teenage angst, because, though I can see my destination now, the journey is a winding, tiresome trek, and my legs are getting older every day.
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