Skin on Skin
This was a little story of a man I met while on
special duty assignment in
- C. Curtis Conway, 15 Feb. 1990
“It’s a matter of American pride, of working hard. But most of all my honor.”
His eyes stare intently into mine, riveting me to my chair. His clenched fists and staccato movements stress the desire to be understood.
“See, man,” he slowly begins, his voice suddenly becoming softer. “There are dudes out there who think skins are a fad. Like punks or some other shit, but it’s not. Being a skinhead, well, it’s a way of life. No, a religion is what it is.”
He nods his head thoughtfully at the last idea. A small smile begins to crack his serious face. As quickly as the smile appeared, though, it’s gone, replaced by a far away look in his eyes.
“It’s not being afraid to fight. Die, if I’ve gotta, for my brothers and my beliefs. They stand for the same thing which bands us together, makes us strong.”
I’m blown away by his deep convictions to this way of life he has chosen. He talks about drugs, fights, and pain as someone may about glory days in high school. The stories he’s confided in me leave me thinking about his way of living compared to that of my non-stop youth, or so I thought, in American City, USA.
“You know, many people only think of skinheads as about a few hundred people. They need a shot of reality. It’s more like thousands, many thousands. Hell, man, skins have been around for years. It’s just starting to get some recognition.”
He picks up a semi-warm can of cheap beer and takes a sip.
I give him a raised eyebrow and the question, “Kinda nasty, huh?”
“Fuck it, it’s beer.”
I
chuckle to myself, thinking about how many times I’ve hear that from my hometown
buddies. This dude, who chooses a life of fighting for his beliefs and expects ridicule in return, is a lot like my friends in
I learned a lot from the few hours we spent talking, more like interpreting each other and our lives. My mind was sent on a journey into his fears and triumphs as he reads me his songs he haw written for the skinhead band he hopes to form.
“Music is the only way I can get my point across.”
His artwork shows not only his talent, but how the skins are truly his religion. I recall a picture of five skinheads raising an American flag back to its upright position.
I look once again at the young man, and for a second, I see the unsatisfied feeling with his past, the discontent with the present, and the uncertainty in his future.
No, I think, no difference.