It was 1994, I think – my junior year of high school. Things were fucked up then, and they were about to get even more fucked up. But that year, Halloween fell on a Sunday and it was just me and Esther on the Metro North, heading back to New York from Connecticut, where we’d been visiting our good friend DJ. There were shows each of the two weekend nights we were up in West Hartford, both shows featuring Bikini Kill, the nouveau feminist punk grrrl band that pretty much solidified much of my politics and world view from the age of fifteen on. Bikini Kill was scheduled to play CBGBs that Sunday night, and Esther and I wandered through the East Village till we stumbled across the intersection of Bleecker and Bowery and got in line with the rest of the crusty rioters.

We were pumped, or at least I was. I’d been wearing the same clothes for four days straight, gems from the Levittown Salvation Army; my hair was freshly dyed black; I hadn’t talked to my parents in days. I felt like I was on the cusp of some freedom that I couldn’t yet name.

Sixteen years old.

Back then CBGBs had and ID policy: you had to be sixteen to get in. They may still have that policy; I have no idea. We reached the front of the line and the bouncer growled while we fumbled for IDs. We didn’t drive yet, didn’t normally have a reason to carry photo identification. I dug out my learner’s permit and presented it to the door man. He stamped my hand and I turned back to see Esther with a bewildered look on her face. No ID. Nothing. We stepped away from the door to make room for the surging masses of suburban punks. I felt desperate, started pleading with the door man. If I didn’t see Tobi Vail in dirty blue Converse on that stage I swear I would not have made it through the rest of that year. And in that moment, Esther produced a thin sheet of 11×17 paper. Her high school transcript.

The bouncer examined it as we stood stock-still praying that this flimsy, mimeographed sheet was enough to be our admittance pass. All Advanced Placement classes. All As. A plusses. College bound. The bouncer glanced back up at us and we shot back our most innocent yet older-than-sixteen smiles.

He waved us in.