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{shortcode-43398d403e34e66bfdaa7eab24579c01bb18b17b}ESSAY

“Black Eyeliner Does Not Make You a Non-Conformist”

Several years ago, my mother told me I listen to “white people music.” And I suppose that’s true—rock ‘n’ roll tends to spring from the middle-class basements of young, white men. Though I did point out that its origins trace back to jazz musicians of the Harlem Renaissance. Also that one of the greatest guitarists of all time—dear Mr. Hendrix; may he rest in peace—was black.

My devotion to punk rock began in seventh grade, when Green Day’s “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” came up on my iTunes shuffle. I started to look into their other releases, eventually immersing myself into the complete punk discography. My mother, having grown up in a racially segregated New York, was more likely to listen to Stevie Wonder than Stevie Nicks. But, she must have figured, to each her own.

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So while my compatriots indulged in the music of Taylor Swift, One Direction, and Lady Gaga, my tacky Hot Topic headphones blasted Green Day, Ramones, and The Clash. My young adolescent ears drank in the raw, chaotic beauty, an echo of the pain of the past. The thrashing, pulsating vitality of the instruments painted a picture, connecting me to the disillusioned kids who launched an epic movement of liberation some 40 years ago.

Punkers question authority. Aggressively contrarian, they advocate for the other side—the side that seemed smothered silent during the post-Vietnam era. They rejected established norms. They spoke out and weren’t afraid.

I had always felt different from my peers. In my girls’ prep school, the goal was to be blond and good at soccer. I was neither, which automatically deemed me “uncool.” I had a few close friends but never felt like I was part of a whole.

Then came the punk philosophy, for the outliers, for those who were different. That was something I could be part of.

Instead of trying to conform to my peers, I adopted an anti-conformist attitude. Much like the prematurely grey anti-hero of my favorite book, I sneered at all the “phonies” around me. I resented anything popular. Uggs? Wouldn’t buy them. Yoga pants? Never. Starbucks? Well, I could make a few concessions.

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But I felt more cynical than liberated. I wasted so much energy on being different that I lost track of what actually made me happy. I insisted I didn’t care what people thought of me, which was true. Yet if I base my actions almost solely on their behavior, how could I deny their influence?

Luckily, as I transitioned from a private school to a brand new public high school, I got to clean the slate. I bought yoga pants and found they were comfortable. I listened to a wider variety of music, even the kind that wasn’t 100% hardcore punk. And I was happier.

I revised my punk philosophy: Do as you like—whether it fits into the “system” or not.

The Beatles’s “Revolution” lyrics sum it up well:

You tell me it’s the institution

Well, you know

You’d better free your mind instead

What I think Lennon was getting at is questioning everything does not entail opposing everything. Defiance for the sake of defiance is unproductive at best, destructive at worst.

I believe in life’s greater Truths, like Love and Justice. These Truths are what should govern my actions—not what’s popular and what isn’t. Striving to act on these ideals has helped me stay true to myself, regardless of what’s considered “conformist.”

Perhaps I’ve failed the punk movement. We’ll have to wait and see.

In the meantime, I’ll do what makes me happy and change what doesn’t. I’ll wear Doc Martens instead of Uggs; I’ll partake in a grande pumpkin spice latte; I’ll watch Gossip Girl; I’ll blare my favorite guitar solo over the speakers in my room.

And that’s as punk as it gets.

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REVIEW

Ariel’s essay—a pitch-perfect portrait of coming-of-age malaise—shows that you don’t need some monumental event or life-changing epiphany to craft a compelling narrative. Not much happens over the 647 words of this essay, but the soul is in the details: the nods to her mother, the subtle Catcher in the Rye allusion, the levity to be found in her unyielding fondness for lattes.

This essay follows a relatable and adaptable template: let’s call it the “blind-but-now-I-see” script. Ariel opens the piece as a causeless rebel (rocking out to Green Day, granted), but blooms into a more nuanced being with a worldview of her own making. Importantly, the young heroine’s quest is shown as much as told, with motifs like yoga pants and Uggs serving as markers of her growing maturity. The essay also showcases Ariel’s mastery of cadence—making good use of the em-dash and colon—and her willingness to experiment with prose as she spells out her capital-T Truths. Though Ariel’s story has been told and retold between the covers of countless young adult novels, she tells it with wit and warmth, portraying herself to admissions officers as a particularly self-aware, free-thinking applicant.

Disclaimer: With exception of the removal of identifying details, essays are reproduced as originally submitted in applications; any errors in submissions are maintained to preserve the integrity of the piece.

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