In Battle There Is No Vest

In Battle There Is No Vest
Saying Goodbye to My Battle Jacket

I got into heavy music somewhere between middle and high school. An awkward, insecure kid, I was insecure in my metal-ness from the start. Like anyone just getting into something new, I didn't know all the bands I was 'supposed' to. I didn't know all the heroes I was supposed to worship. I didn't prefer one genre to another, listening to everything from nu-metal to hardcore to weird avant garde music I found on a message board.  Mostly, I didn't seem to fit in with the other punk and metal kids in my school, few as they were. I was un-pierced, un-tattooed, rarely dyed my hair. Blonde haired, green eyed, I looked like someone's sweet kid neighbor, not someone who went home and stomped around to lo-fi black metal. 

I didn't realize that I could be both, that there aren't rules for how to be or fit in.

In my quest for acceptance and belonging, struggling with a rocky home life, I tried to make my outside appearance match my inner fire. I hated needles and didn't want to sit out a second sparring at martial arts, so piercings were out. Tattoos weren't on the table- yet. Black hair would look awful on me. The easiest thing to do was change up the way I dressed. 

I grew to love the way my wavy hair poofed out around my hair, reminding me of glam metal- one small victory in self-acceptance and love, as I'd regularly had it chemically straightened. My look didn't change much overall, I mostly pulled on jeans and t-shirts, although those t-shirts became military inspired, black, grey, or polka dot. I saved my money to buy a pair of steel-toed boots, Doc Marten knockoffs- that lasted me close to ten years, until the steel plate cracked, stabbing me in the toes. 

I loved the way people wore their hearts, literally, on their sleeves, creating patch jackets and battle jackets. To me, this was an instantly recognizable way to find my people and for them to find me. Ideally, they'd welcome me and take me in as one of their own. I rarely could afford t-shirts, or find some my mom wouldn't be appalled by, but I could afford patches and pins. I kept them before I had a place to put them. I covered my closet door in stickers, and used show fliers to cover my walls. I was fully immersed and in love with the heavy music culture, although I still looked like a bright-eyed teen JcPenny model. It was silly and superficial and I desperately wanted to look like I fit in somewhere.

I didn't think I had 'the look,' but I definitely had the attitude.

I wanted a denim or leather jacket, but it was impossible to find one that I could afford and that fit my skinny body. Most of my clothes came from the secondhand shops, where if they did come into a sweet jacket, it was snapped up instantly. I begged my mom to take me to the Army/Navy store, which I understood was where Metal Dudes bought pants, boots, and jackets. I bought an olive green jacket, overjoyed, and a handful of military patches. My favorite was a Army Tank Destroyer patch- a ferocious cat biting a tank in half dating from WW2.

I wore the jacket as-is for a few years. It was light enough for Florida and big enough for me for hide in. As a normally anxious person and perfectionist, the thought of permanently committing was too difficult. I stuck to a few pins (many of them found at school or on the ground) and my military patches, solely picked because of how cool they looked. (I was, and remain, staunchly anti-war.)

When a friend gave me an original, 1984 backpatch of Exodus' Bonded by Blood, my favorite album, I knew it was time to convert my green jacket into the battle vest of my teen-aged dreams. I cut the sleeves off, always too short anyway, and hemmed the jacket, by hand, into a vest.  The Exodus back patch took its place of honor, the centerpiece of my vest. 

My friends and I outside a Tampa venue after one of their shows.

The perfectionist fully took hold as I tried to re-arrange the other patches around the backpiece. Did I include the bands I liked the most, even though the patches were less cool? How much did I know about each band I was considering? (Getting interrogated was something that I withstood often, grinning and bearing it, because I wanted to 'win' the quiz, and the person's respect. It wasn't until well into adulthood and self-acceptance that I told people to fuck off.) Did I hold off until I found the  PERFECT patch? And where did they go? I pinned and re-pinned many times, never sure of where to put each patch. 

After the Exodus patch, I sewed my Wacken patch on the left lapel, a memory of how at home I felt instantly in a crowd of over 100,000, screaming along to Iron Maiden. The rest came eventually, with much debate and anxiety.

Finally, I had a battle vest that reflected me. It wasn't traditional, it was olive green and covered in a hodgepodge of bands. It represented, fairly, I thought, my tastes- from Blind Guardian to Dissection. Pins were easier to change, so I bought and rotated them out between my vest, my purses, and backpacks. Years after buying the olive green jacket, I had a battle vest; something that signified my place in my community. I was convinced it was a good way to be accepted upon first glance. 

But the truth was, I rarely wore it. I'm convinced I run at least three degrees hotter than everyone else, so wearing a vest in Florida in the dog days of summer at an un-air conditioned show, was a punishment more than an opportunity to show off. I kept it in my closet, still rotating out the pins, waiting for the perfect time to wear it. I may have worn it to my first-ever Maryland Deathfest, I don't remember. I don't have a single photo of me wearing it, although I surely must have- I probably took it off and stashed it because I was too damn hot.

As I got older, I grew more secure. I developed more interests, slogged through graduate school, and developed a better sense of who I was. A friend gave me a Motorhead backpatch he took from who knows where. At one point, I thought "Oh cool, I'll make a cute girlie Motorhead vest too and I'll wear both." I never did. I preferred, as I always had, a t-shirt and jeans or shorts, dressed to stay cool. Wearing a metal vest felt a bit like playing dress up, like shouting "SEE, I'M COOL!" or dressing for Halloween. Still though, I held onto my symbolic banner of belonging, schlepping it across the US, through a move every years.

Today, I was packing up some shirts to take to a Punk Rock Flea Market. I tugged down my battle vest and it dawned on me that it might be time to let go. As an adult, metal is one of many of my interests. It's the music I'm most likely to turn on, although I never abandoned the classic rock and Motown of my youth. I've met so many people that introduced me to so many ways to be into music, to be passionate and dedicated. Music has been a huge part of my life; I don't need to wear something that always felt, to me, like a bit of a costume to 'prove' to self-proclaimed gatekeepers that I fit.

Now, shows in my local area or tours my friends are on feel like home. I'm less concerned with looking like I belong and more concerned with enjoying my friends and the music, who are usually one and the same. Besides, it's DC, someone inevitably shows up, straight from work in their corporate costume, and they're welcomed just the same. I'm at an age, mercifully, where people accept me for me, and if not, I'm not too bothered by it. 

Taking the first patch off my vest sent ripples through my heart. I didn't expect it to hurt, after all, I barely wore it. I dutifully took each patch off, sorting them into piles to keep or sell. In a second of regret, I wondered if I could still wear the vest, as it was, plain and olive green. Uh, no. The pockets on it make my boobs look like they're down to my stomach- hardly something I cared about at 15, but definitely a concern at 30. It's not warm enough to be practical in the DC snow nor big enough to be an extra layer over my hoodie. (No better way to remember that my 30 year old body is different than my teen body.) 

Thank you vest! Best wishes on your next life. <3

In Marie Kondo fashion, I said thanks to my vest for existing and tucked it into a bag to donate. I still appreciate care and planning and dedication that goes into creating a metal vest. Sometimes when I see people wearing theirs, I feel a little jealous. Maybe I'll make a new one, one day. Or maybe I'll find a new way to display my now much smaller collection. More than jealousy I feel gratitude. I'm glad I found my way and cultivated a sense of belonging I desperately needed as a teenager, growing comfortable in my own skin and finding people who love and support me, across musical genres, interests, and nations.

So, thank you green vest, for being a place to work out my teen anxieties in a physical, observable way. Thank you for being a jacket to hide in and then a wonderful metal exoskeleton. Thank you for existing in my life for over half of it, always ready to act as a shield when I needed you. Thank you for being. I hope that some other girl, finding her way, pulls it out and covers it in patches and pins, to the chagrin of her mother.