I’ve always had underlying feminist intentions, even when I was a kid and didn’t understand really how much feminism is still needed (because I was raised by weirdly fundamentalist people). But there was a part of me which rebelled against girly things such as romance and flowers and screaming about insects and loving the color pink. Some of these were more true at some ages than others. For instance my 7th grade self read way too much VC Andrews and wore the absolute SHIT out of this one pale pink hoodie.
But by 9th grade, when I started becoming the human I’d grow up to be, I swore off girly things pretty much entirely for the next few years. Of course, this was also during the height of Grunge, and during this time I began discovering other subcultures as well. And, while I’ve never actually been goth (partially because I lack the commitment to dedicate myself to any one particular facet of subculture), I felt kinship with goths because of our shared love of Robert Smith and hatred of the sun and preppies.
When I visited Hawaii when I was 22, I didn’t expect to love it a whole lot. I considered myself a more Londony/rainy kind of person than a tropical/beachy kind of person. I went because I wanted to travel, and because it was my last trip with my grandparents, and because I wanted to understand more about my family history (we are not Hawaiian, but they lived there in the 1950’s). Of course Hawaii was all, “Yeah, whatever. You know you’re gonna love me.” And, indeed, Hawaii had the last laugh. Even Londony goths can love Hawaii. Fact.
Similarly, when choosing a favorite season (having lists of favorites, it turns out, remains important well past eight years old. my favorite planet is Jupiter), I assumed I’d choose winter or autumn. Because they’re the more gothy of the seasons. Spring and summer are all cheerleader peppy and colors and sunshine and happiness. And, in the words of Sally Sparrow, “Sad is happy for deep people.” And, true enough, if I lived in a place where we had actual seasons, autumn might be my favorite (but not winter because, let’s face it, for all my complaining about stupid happy sunshine, I am a delicate flower when it comes to temperatures and snow is downright terrifying). However, we don’t have seasons, and our autumns are not spectacular with all the colors of fire lighting the path into the darkness of winter. So I’ve neglected to choose a favorite season, likely because I sense, deep within myself, that my favorite season might just be that pinkest and preppiest of seasons. Crap.
This year I’ve deeply pondered such a possibility: Is spring my favorite season? Is that acceptable for someone with an inner goth such as myself? And I’ve had a sort of awkward internal struggle between that side of myself that fancies itself a Deep Person for appreciating Dark Things and that, more suffocated side of myself, who thinks flowers and blue skies are pretty lovely actually so there. And I have to admit she’s right. There is something about the promise of springtime. Of new life and new beginnings. Of that particular green of new leaves that really doesn’t exist at any other time of the year. Of trees exploded in blossom – sometimes so overexcited about flowering that they cannot even be bothered to grow leaves until the flower festivals have been celebrated.
So there. I grudgingly admit that I love the flowers. The pinks. The purples. The greens. The sunny skies. The warmth on the shoulders.
As it turns out, goths can totally love springtime, too.
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