Op-Ed - Issue #221

This is the story from the Op-Ed column of Alternative Press issue #221, December 2006.

I feel like sharing it with whoever is reading this now, because not only has it moved me, I also find it inspiring.

Op-Ed
Musicians Speak Out

Teenage ostracism breeds two things: Bad high school mixers and good punk music. Steve Neary - frontman of the Boston punk outift, Far From Finished - knows this well. Born with only one hand faced with years of confused, disapproving stares from classmates, he found solace in his stereo speakers and a scene that didn't judge him for his flaws.

(His story starts here:)

I wouldn't dare compare my handicap to anyone else's. For the most part, my road has been smooth. I don't need to co-opt anyone else's struggle or pain. As I grew up in the suburbs of New York City, my parents warned me of the uglier side of humankind, and that I would need tough skin to survive. Back then, that seemed like no big thing. I thought it would be easy. But I was naive.

Things started to change when I was seven or eight years old. I remember one day looking down and saying to myself, "Holy shit! I have one hand!" Not that I didn't know I was missing my right hand. I just never really saw myself like that. It suddenly freaked me out. I was scared. It made me paranoid.

My real problem, however, wasn't my lack of an appendage. It was that I never really knew how to talk about how it made me feel. In fifth grade, this leaking frustration started to rear its ugly head. I remember [this] kid - we'll call him "Todd" (that seems like a fitting name for a prick) - started joking around and calling me "Stumpy." Maybe fucking around was his attempt at friendly ribbing. Maybe he was actually digging into me. Nonetheless, shortly after the words left his mouth, I (a 90-pound kid at the time) smacked his head off a brick wall. Back then, I felt bad about it. But now I don't care. At the very least, maybe he gained a little character out of the incident.

Kids weren't always like that, though. Sometimes they would simply ask what happened to my other hand and I would give them well-rehearsed answers like: "That's the way God made me", "It doesn't hurt" or "Look! Touch it!" But really it was hurting me. Deep down, I hated that my arm was the first thing people saw when they looked at me. I wanted desperately to be known for something else. There's a lot of pressure to fit in as you grow up. You want to look cool, be part of the "in" crowd. For me, that pressure was like a daily mental breakdown. During each interaction with my peers, I feared the worst. I couldn't be vulnerable at all - not my clothes, what I said, anything. It was difficult. Making friends became a chore. I couldn't hang out with the cool kids because I couldn't act like them. I wasn't like them and never could be.

And then I heard the Sex Pistols.

By the end of the first verse of "Problems", I was completely drawn in by the lyrics and the urgency in Johnny Rotten's voice. I love it. I knew I had found a special thing. Something about it felt right. I immediately took to punk rock. Unlike high school, it felt safe.

At first, I didn't know why I seemed to get along so well with the punks, or why I was so attracted to the punk lifestyle. The only thing I knew was that they looked and acted different, and I wasn't intimidated at all. Befriending freaks and castaways was the safest route. And it would be the most clarifying thing I had ever done. These people seemed way more normal to me than the rest of the world. I couldn't believe my eyes. There was no fitting in, no social ladder to climb. I could just be myself and that was good enough. It didn't matter what I looked like.

When I was 15, I started out Far From Finished with a couple of buddies and immediately knew it was more than just a band name. The sounds would forever forecast my future and ultimately every decision I would make.

So, here I am, 23 years old and finally not afraid to be me. I'm able to get up everyday and step out in front of a crowd of people who are hungry for all the same things I was - and still am. I was once dismissed like every other kid that doesn't fit the mold, but through example, support and the endless inspiration that comes from punk, I've become something I never thought I could be: A role model. Could that be right? How could I, a kid who spent so many years being unsure of himself, be something so definite and secure to others? It can only be described as surreal when kids come up to me and convey how much our music and this band meant to them how I've been (gasp) an inspiration.

Through punk, and specifically this band, I want to show my disapproval of what is going on around me, and to finally be seen as myself. It's not what we're missing - everyone lacks something. It's that we're the only ones to hold ourselves back.

Note: Please inform me should I miss out some words, or made any spelling errors.

Carmen.