With arms braced, I’d deflect the weight of people pushing, shoving, elbows jabbing until I’d spring from the eager fingertips of those outlining the pit. My muscles tensed waiting for the moment I’d jump into the swirling mass of bodies, letting the wave of aggressive dancing carry me away. The anticipation of waiting for the mosh pit was the most thrilling part of a show. We’d smoke Camel cigarettes in her car as she drove us down the freeway towards The Observatory, a popular music venue for punk shows in Santa Ana. I’d go to as many shows as I could with my roommate. In my goth-inspired punk aesthetic of Betty Paige bangs, velvet crop tops, a smiley piercing, and a growing collection of grayscale tattoos on my arms, I fit right in. Their shows were filled with sweaty teenagers and young adults sporting the infamous burger badges, denim jackets, and Doc Martens. The Southern California punk scene was dominated by Burger Records, a music label that valued the DIY spirit of garage rock with bands like Cherry Glazerr, FIDLAR, Hunx and His Punx, and Ty Segall. As I accidentally stepped on people’s shoes, elbowed them in the ribs, and glided on a bed of hands and fists, I felt more at home in my body than I ever had. The mosh pit was my safe haven, a space where I could express my rage, grief, and sadness without question. I discovered punk music when I was 19-years-old and grappling with the realization that I was sexually abused as a child. Trigger Warning: Contains mentions of sexual abuse

Punk mosh pit