We 💜 The Goths.
I feel the urge to express gratitude to a certain group of people who have somehow orbited my life since I was about twelve years old, right through Toronto and beyond.
And that, of course, is the Goths.
I have deep respect for anyone devoted to the goth lifestyle and, more importantly, goth fashion. The commitment to that much black alone deserves a municipal tax credit. I’ve had friends who went full gorgoroth: black eyes, black lips, full death-face like they were personally responsible for disappointing their parents.
My acid dealer when I was sixteen was an arrestingly beautiful goth girl named Jessica, who was also the first person I knew with facial piercings. And I don’t mean one tasteful stud. I mean infrastructure.
Jessica moved slowly, coolly, like she was buffering in real time. Mildly amused. Economical with her energy.
She had rings through her nose and eyebrows, small silver constellations across her cheekbones, and so many in her ears and lips you eventually stopped counting and just respected the commitment. Thick black eyeliner framed her icy blue eyes that looked permanently bored. Long pointed bangs fell over one side of her face in front of a shaved head. Classic Chelsea punk cut. Zero fucks given.
She smelled faintly of clove smoke and something vaguely medicinal, like Hot Topic meets first aid kit chic.
She spoke softly, the way people do when they already know you’re going to make a questionable decision and have chosen to let the universe handle it.
She looked like she could either ruin your life or recommend an extremely specific Bauhaus B-side. Maybe both .
And here’s the thing:Â
Goths were some of the first people I ever saw (other than punks) who seemed completely divested from being liked by the general public. They had opted out. Fully, with eyeliner sharp enough to file paperwork.
As a weird queer kid in the big city, that landed deep in my nervous system.
Because goths weren’t asking for permission.
They weren’t softening the edges.
They weren’t translating themselves for mass consumption.
They just… were.
In a world constantly trying to sand people down into friendly beige shapes, the goths showed up dressed for their own emotional weather. In all black, naturally.Â
I’ve respected that ever since.
And honestly, anyone who can commit to that much black laundry for that many decades is vibrating at a level of personal conviction I can only aspire to.