A Random Image
 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || April 14, 2011 || 5:13 am

Do you know TwoBusy? He is my Very Good Friend and he can write like the bottom is falling out and he might not ever get to write another word….then he does it again and another again after that.  He also once told me that he couldn’t hear me talking nonsense to him because the strippers on his solid gold yacht (“What? It does too float!”) were DANCING TOO LOUDLY. We have come up with a present war that we call ‘GIFTPOCALYPSE!!!1!!eleventy!!1!’

Well, of course he’s my friend. Are you thick or something?

The term “punk rock” has been co-opted and perverted so many times, it’s hard to pin down exactly what it means. For a lot of folks, it’s a kind of music they can’t really describe other than in vague terms of sloppiness and anger and tempo and “y’know… like Green Day or something. Like that Time of Your Life song — I loved that! It was my prom song!” And then they start singing the chorus to you and you find yourself torn between wanting to yell at them to stop or simply walking away.

For others, it’s an image replete with giant (often multi-hued) Mohawks and cheeks and ears pierced with safety pins and old and torn leather jackets and sweaty mosh pits with bodies crushing and colliding in tiny, filthy clubs and the implication of unfocused rage searching for a target and the perceived threat that rage generates (despite the fact that a significant percentage of people fitting that description are, in fact, among the more gentle and thoughtful creatures you’ll ever encounter). See that photo there to the left, of Tank Girl in all her ferocious glory? That’s the general
idea, and to those for whom the status quo of minivans and Pleasant Valley Sundays are the defining qualities of safe and familiar reality, it can be a threatening thing.

And then there’s Jett. She’s a wife, and mother to several. She’s a respected professional and colleague. She’s a proud Alabaman (is that the right term?
Alabamite? Alabaster? Alabamination?) with a deep and passionate faith in God and in the goodness of her fellow man. And she is the most punk rock person I’ve ever known.

Her hair is neither green nor carved into strange and evocative patterns that might raise the eyebrow of those who pass by her on a daily basis. Her eyes are neither wild nor smeared with Siouxsie makeup, but rather stunningly clear and piercing, betraying little but the fierce intellect and curiosity that lies behind them.

It’s not about what you see.

There’s an uncaged passion and joy in Jett that is a wonder to behold — a refusal to compromise her beliefs in what is good and right and possible, in the world or in those who fill it, that defies the easy cynicism of our age (not that I’d, uh, know anything about that) by fearlessly assuming the most contradictory perspective imaginable: that it is our purpose and our responsibility to act kindly to one another. That it is our prerogative and our God-given task to exercise free will by questioning authority wielded for the sake of authority. That it is our most fundamental nature as free-roaming creatures of instinct and emotion to explore our world, to find beauty in the strangest and most unexpected places, and to plunge into darkness and feel our way, inch by painful inch, back toward the light — or even the promise of light.

Tell me that’s not radical. Tell me that you don’t see how her hyperarticulate nature – as a talker, as a writer, as a thinker and friend – isn’t an expression of this radicalism. Tell me you don’t take all of this in and find yourself bewildered and struck with wonder, stunned to silence and left a little bit inspired. I don’t know; maybe you can. I can’t.

Happy Birthday, Jett.

4 worked it out »

  1. Cheryl 4.14.2011

    Purty sure AlabamiNation is the only place big enough to hold the force of either of you.

     
  2. EarnestGirl 4.15.2011

    I can’t either.

    Many budgies came and went through my childhood. They were all called Sam. Some were loving, some were cheeky rebels, some were, well, domesticated birds. One, a particularly plucky Sam, escaped when we were away for a summer on a farm. Jett is like that Sam, a bright jaunty jewel in the trees. She watched us but went about her own business anyway, our puny bird seed treats be damned. She hung out there at the edge of the trees, fierce, bright-eyed, singing her own song and generally making my heart too happy about her there in the trees to be sad about her absence from the cage.

    I like to believe there is a sub-species of sparrow in PEI farm country with the occasional jewel green plume.

    Here’s to beauty in unexpected places.

     
  3. leel 4.17.2011

    i can’t either.
    i still like to picture her in my mind with one huge “what-are-you-looking-at-asshole?” mohawk sometimes.
    this was beautifully written. awesome.

     
  4. Troutie 4.17.2011

    “It’s not about what you see.”

     

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