poseur.
One day, in sophomore or year of high school, I was with a couple of friends and ran into the uber-goth of my school. “Poseur,” she muttered under her breath before taunting me to quickly name every single Siouxsie album chronologically. I said, uhhhh, no. “Fucking poseur,” and she cackled. You see, just simply dressing the part is not enough - you must master the lifestyle, conform to the the “rules,” and only listen to approved bands. I was more into industrial in high school, but was known to listen to whatever the hell I wanted - I was still openly a Madonna and (gasp) U2 fan, and I wasn’t going to stop liking a band or artist just because they weren’t deemed “cool” enough. You see, I didn’t give a shit about the lifestyle - I didn’t want to wear the uniform; I wanted to wear whatever I wanted and listen to the music that I liked. Who cares if I was going to be made fun of the goth chick that many of my friends thought was a total bitch. They reminded me, wasn’t she the one who had teased hair, sporting her Benetton before winter break? Her once sunny disposition turned black along with everything else, and I found it to be hypocritical immediately.
In high school, music is a very powerful force. As much as we may say that we don’t want to conform, we all do to an extent. Each subculture has some sort of uniform, some code of honor, that you follow in order to belong. For some reason, I was a bit stubborn - I wanted to hang out with the cool kids, but there was no way I was going to give up my other friends in the process. Sure, I wore black most days, but there were times when I wanted to wear something different. When it came to music, I may have been partial to new wave and industrial, but I sure loved the Pixies and Replacements. As far as I was concerned, I was no poseur - I was authentic and true to the only one that mattered, myself.
