\u201cPunk Rock Mom\u201d was a distinction of honor my mother appointed to herself, and though the title mortified me on more than one occasion, she\u2019d well earned it. She was the one helming the two-hour, round trip commute between my hometown of Arlington, Washington and Seattle, where any and all rock concerts worth two hours on the road took place. These gigs often occurred on school nights, no less, but my mom didn\u2019t seem to mind. She\u2019d just as soon climb behind the wheel of her late Subaru Forester (RIP) on a weeknight as she would let me go to school the next day reeking of bar smoke and brandishing the fresh hematomas I\u2019d acquired in the pit the previous night. She didn\u2019t need to prove anything to anyone. <\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019s astonishing to think back on those nights and fully absorb how goddamn lucky I was to have parents who not only helped me dye my hair blue, but who were smart enough to run their separate households like meritocracies: get straight A\u2019s, and you can look as funny as you like. Do your homework, and we\u2019ll haul your ass to a seedy bar just under a freeway off ramp on a Tuesday so you can hear music we can\u2019t stand. Except my mom <\/span>did <\/span><\/i>like the music, or at least pretended to for the sake of Punk Rock Mom point accumulation. <\/span><\/p>\n

While my dad and stepmom would typically find a nice restaurant to abscond to, or a nearby watering hole to imbibe craft cocktails in as I palled around with drunks n\u2019 punks, \u00a0my mom would stay glued to a barstool in the venue. I appreciate why my dad didn\u2019t want to stick around these grimey shows; he would make the long drive just like my mom, but he\u2019s always been more of a fan of melodic music, and I never blamed him for not wanting to stew in a smoky dive while listening to the sonic stylings of Clit 45 or Toxic Narcotic. Ma, on the other hand, was in hog heaven. A woman who coughs up more smoke than a coal refinery and could drink Hemingway under the table (and probably outwit him just as easily), my mom basked in the grit and glory of the go-to punk venue at the time, The Graceland. It was dark, cheap, socked-in with cigarette smoke (these were the glorious, pre-smoking ban days, circa 2003-2005). The Graceland answered with a resounding \u201cyes!\u201d to one of my mom\u2019s most crucial questions: \u201cIs there a bar?\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

It never occured to me at the time, but I now suspect that my mom had a much more interesting time in the Graceland bar than I ever did watching the bands. She actually met people, and spoke with them, while I tended to collect more bruises than friends over by the stage. Her bar buddies were often members of the bands I was there to see, and I would simmer with jealousy when I learned she\u2019d gotten quality time with my punk rock heroes. She chatted with Matt from the Hollowpoints, my favorite local band at the time. She had a couple of beers with Mark Stern of Youth Brigade, and learned that he had a three-year-old daughter at the time who was also named Madison. She unveiled this detail with a measure of pride, and told Mark Stern all about her own Madison. I recoiled in horror at the thought of the conversation she must have had with Stern, no doubt assuring him that I was Youth Brigade\u2019s biggest fan (not true) and that she was my \u201cPunk Rock Mom\u201d (pretty true), a title that also graced one of the band\u2019s later singles.<\/span><\/p>\n

Most kids grow up worrying that at some stage, their parents will embarrass them in front of their friends. I grew up in the unique, opposite position: I was in constant fear that I would never be as cool as my mom. I have been assured by my friends that I never will be. All of the best items in my wardrobe have come from her. The knee-high leather boots, threadbare t-shirts from Muscle Beach, Germany, and Spain, and a pair of Levi\u2019s I can barely squeeze into. I have a train chest overflowing with costume jewelry she no longer wears, and though a small cobalt box nestled inside of it holds her wedding and engagement rings from my parents\u2019 nine-year marriage, it is a single earring in all that metal that most reminds me of her. A brass ear cuff in the shape of a little lizard – well, half of a little lizard. Only the butt and tail of the metal critter was cast, and when you affix the piece to your ear, it looks as though the front of his body is crawling into your ear canal. I feel like this small bauble is a pretty good summation of my mom: small, charming, and pretty; witty, dark and strange. An all-around gem, and a little fucker in the best way.<\/span><\/p>\n

It is perhaps because I already took all of my mom\u2019s cool clothing and accessories that I haven\u2019t robbed her of her records (yet). Then again, I don\u2019t remember her ever offering them up like she so readily did with her collection of clothes. Because of her humble collection I discovered Wire, the Pretenders, the Specials, the Rolling Stones, General Public, and of course David Bowie<\/a>. She didn\u2019t have anything by GBH or the Subhumans, but I realize now that my mom was so punk rock, she had every record that influenced my favorite bands as a teenager. Maybe \u201cProto-Punk Rock Mom\u201d would have been a more apt title. <\/span><\/p>\n

I look back at pictures of my mom from the \u201870s and \u201880s and wonder if we would have been friends if we grew up across the street from one another, if I could simply bask in her coolness instead of reject it, like I did as a teen. I\u2019d like to think we\u2019d be friends, because if there\u2019s one thing those photos tell me it\u2019s that she had a blast, and considering how good she looked, I suspect few people ever told her \u201cno.\u201d There\u2019s one photo in particular from the mid to late \u201880s that I love. She\u2019s standing in the driveway of my grandma\u2019s house in Huntington Beach, California, with my toddler sister perched on one hip. She\u2019s wearing a straight black sleeveless dress that stops above the knee, and she has a short mop of hair that I have copied three times in my adult life so far. She has a customary cigarette poised between her free fingers, and dark shades, and a long, thin braid of hair stemming from the base of her neck. She looks badass, and yes, even a little punk rock. Recalling that photo today, I decide, yes, we would have been friends. But I like it better this way, with her as my Punk Rock Mom.<\/span><\/p>\n