Hi, my name is Katie and I am a hippie punx. I consider myself a hippie punx because of this type of philosophy that I’ve come to adopt over the years and I’d love to share my story with you, so maybe some of you can identify with it.
I grew up a very loud, opinionated, rebellious kid and wanted to scream from the roofs of every building about non-conformity, and anti-authority.
My voice came early around 3 or 4 years old. I was in my gender rebel days and felt strongly about going against the authorities [my parents] trying to police my gender. But I realized, in time, that my distrust and disdain for authority, rules, and obedience didn’t just apply to everyone policing gender identity.
But because I was born in 1989, my parents picked a really untrendy and unforgiving time to co-parent. They were only together a short time before they broke up, and they were older and tired. My dad, Richie Brown went to Woodstock in NY, the summer of ‘69. He then hitchhiked 3,000 miles to California at 17 years old to “find himself”. He lived in a cave for 3 months. Rich is a talented finish carpenter and machinist who restores 20th-century Harleys. His parents were both heavy drinkers, who weren’t present for him. He didn’t get the love and admiration every child needs. His father was a German immigrant with C-PTSD from the war who was abusive and drank every day. His father left when he was 15 and died never telling him he loved him.
My mom, Faye Brown, who danced at Studio 54 in Manhattan, and toured Europe with recording artists, and was a true non-conformist, for a time. And she never drank the Kapitalism Kool-aid either. Too stunningly beautiful to ever dream of labor or exerting one's self for the benefit or gain of who? Some capitalist? MY BOSS? No, thank you. She knew she didn't belong, but didn’t know where she did. Maybe her lack of education, the particracy and societal pressures made it easy to dismiss all the things “required” of us as humans in this life. My mom had a hard childhood. A hard life. Raised by southerners in New York, in the 1950’s. Her parents didn’t show her love. How could they with all that hate in their hearts? They didn’t show her kindness or forgiveness, so she has difficulty doing the same. As do many other parents. Can you relate?
I realized at a young age what was going on around my home wasn’t normal. I didn’t just realize it, I struggled with it.
Because you see, in my world, in my kith and kin, you are either a drug user a drug outlaw, or both. Either way, you participated in the street economy. You knew how fucked up life was before most kids are just learning how to ride a bike. I spent time in teen drug rehabilitation, adult long and short-term facilities, psychiatric facilities, you name it. I was surrounded by people just like me: hurting.
What they don’t teach you in public school is: that if you don’t raise your kid, the streets will do it for you. I learned this the hard way when I lost my nephew, Luigi. My sister's oldest boy. We were only 8 years apart, so Luigi was like my little brother. I helped raise Luigi at a time when I needed it most. Spending time with Luigi was magical. He was just so charismatic, charming, kind, thoughtful, generous, and just a forgiving young man. He wanted to take on the world and see it all for himself. Something he could have done, but he was murdered while incarcerated. LONG LIVE LUIGI <3 RIP
Fear leads to panic. Panic leads to pain. Pain leads to anger. Anger leads to hate.
At six years old I hated myself and life enough to try and end my life.I was wrongly placed in a preschool for autistic children and was unlawfully and nonconsensually placed in a television commercial for the facility. I was ashamed and embarrassed to come home to my neighbor and other kids bullying me and telling me they couldn’t play with “retards” or my mom said I couldn’t play with “kids like you”
I was diagnosed with gender dysphoria and ADHD and my parents refused to talk about it with me or anyone. My sister was a psychologist and she still, allowed my parents to just “get a second opinion” and move on. My gender dysphoria diagnosis wasn’t revealed to me until I was 21 years old, and coming out as a Lesbian. Something I always struggled with, considering I still enjoyed sleeping with people of other genders and identities. This type of gatekeeping of my queer story is what makes me furious.
At five years old, I knew society rejected me and hated me. But the scariest and most lonely one of all was knowing the only person I felt safe around, my mom, didn’t like me. Mom just continued to see me as a problem, something that needed correcting. I JUST WANTED TO ESCAPE. I NEEDED TO GET OUT OF MYSELF.
And sure did I find it. I found myself surrounded by parties, chasing a feel-good feeling that I could never…get. I chased that feeling down the end of every bottle, every pipe, every straw, every bit of my soul, I gave it away, to every night, every person, every moment… for a chance to feel ..something.. New. Something else. Other than my dumpster fire brain.
I spent the ages of 20-26 years old sober AF. I mean, I was AA sober. I was very active in Young People Alcoholics Anonymous. I was active in speaking out of town, going to conferences and I mean I went out of my way to scream about sobriety. I was raised by the rooms of New York City and Long Island. I thought I had found the answer to my cries. The problem was I was fresh on this Hippie Punx journey and I didnt know then, what I know now, which is: there is no one solution.