Please Send a Picture

Two months ago I decided to enter the yearly literary contest conducted by the Pacific Northwest Writers Association. The appeal was less for glory and more for the critical evaluations they promised to give every work that was submitted. I’ve been trying to finish my first fiction novel for the past year and a half, but since it’s my first, I need to know if it’s readable or a boring piece of shit, so I entered it.

Just for kicks, at the last minute, I gathered a few of my blog writings together and entered those as well. The letter came a couple of weeks ago letting me know that I was a finalist in the Memoirs/Non-Fiction category for my blog writings. Not one peep about the book, so I suspect I have quite a long road of polishing ahead on that piece of shit.

Of course they give the award out at the big dinner that serves as the cornerstone event for their annual writers conference, which I’m not attending this year due to obligations at my pesky day job. No problem making the dinner; I will be able to get a babysitter, and my excited husband is delusional thinking I have a chance in hell at winning this. The glitch is that upon sending a short bio, the payment for the event tickets, and my basic information, they also want a picture of me.

I seem to flinch whenever someone wants my picture, and I’m not really sure why. I’ve always been very okay with the look of my face. The only time I hated it was when I was going through puberty at 13, and my face looked like the landscape of Zit Valley. I hated everything at 13, so the distain over my profile shouldn’t really count.

I have one of those faces that tends to give everything away. If I feel angry, sad, happy, or worried, you can see it on my face right away. Some have complimented me on how expressive my face is, but having an informative face can have its negatives. For example, if I gain just a few pounds, it shows in my face first, or if I really hate someone, yet have to seem interested in something they say, my fake sincerity never works.

Aside from a decent face, I’ve been blessed with good hair despite the number of times over the course of my life that I’ve tried to fuck it up with frizzy perms, acidic dyes, and curling iron burn (man, the ‘80s sucked). Since I’m generally pleased with my overall appearance from the neck up, I guess the hesitation I’m having over sending a photo all has to do with perception.

When you say “punk” people automatically get images of Mohawks, tattoos, piercings, 18-eyelet Doc Martins, and some sneering, male delinquent. Why not, it’s the image that Malcolm McLaren and Vivienne Westwood worked so hard to create and market to disgruntled British youth in the late ‘70s/early ‘80s. I’ve always maintained that “punk” has nothing to do with fashion whatsoever; it’s about individuality, questioning everything, and living your truth as a free thinker. Anybody can dress up in a costume and call themselves a “punk.” Blink 182 and Good Charlotte have been doing it for years.

I’ve been a punk since the middle of my junior year of high school, but I’ve never looked the pop culturally accepted part. Well, maybe for a little while during the whole Riotgrrl movement, but for the most part I wear what I like to refer to as, my “normal person disguise.” If you were standing beside me in the grocery store checkout line watching me look at the cover of the tabloids, you’d never know that I was wishing a future of painful obscurity on those airbrushed motherfuckers that pollute the covers. I look like your average, friendly, approachable mom, which is how I avoid being arrested at political protests. “Nope, Officer Suckass, she can’t possibly be part of this mess. She probably got lost on her way to Nordstrom.”

My hair is a normal shade of dark brown, because I vowed not to screw with the color ever again after the lousy Cruella DeVille number that the Woodinville salon did on my mane. I don’t have tattoos, not because I don’t think they are beautiful and cool, I’m Jewish and there are religious restrictions about marking your body, plus the last time a bunch of Jews got tattooed, it wasn’t a good thing. My ears are pierced, and I didn’t like the feeling of the whole puncturing skin thing, so other piercings never crossed my mind. I dress plainly on the weekends, and business casual on the weekdays, so the only punk thing about me is my attitude.

The good news is that attitude is everything, so I submitted a picture taken by my husband. Maybe the people attending the event will be disappointed when it flashes on the PowerPoint next to the photos of the other writers in the Non-Fiction Book/Memoir category. Who cares, I am who I am and if they are disappointed, then they shouldn’t have been stupid enough to stereotype us punks in the first place.