I was never a Goth. Let’s get this clear from of the offset. I didn’t dye my hair black, wear heavy black eye make-up, listen to the Sisters of Mercy and go on pilgrimages to Whitby. But in my youth, I was often accused of being a Goth by people who didn’t know any better.
I had naturally dark hair, pale skin and I favoured black clothes. I didn’t mind a bit of The Cure, but I was more interested in music from the past. Besides the black, my typical attire was flowery dresses or 1960’s shift dresses with woolly black tights or flared jeans and beads, always finished off (much to my mother’s horror) with DM boots.
Apart from the footwear, my appearance really hasn’t changed all that much and its hardly the most revolutionary style. But in a backwater northern town, where the fashion of choice for the rest of the female population was citrus coloured lycra mini dresses with cut away midriff areas and white stilettos, it was enough of a statement to get the occasional bit of name-calling at the bus stop.
Thankfully it was only ever teasing, but it was enough that the story in today’s paper about the girl beaten to death for being a Goth struck a particular cord with me. This poor girl and her boyfriend were attacked by a group of thugs and she died a few week’s later. I’d read the story briefly a few weeks ago, but today the paper gave details of the 999 call placed by an onlooker, who was unable to stop the attack. It was so harrowing.
They attacked her boyfriend first and then when she went to tend to him “cradling her boyfriend's head on her lap”, they turned on her. The tenderness of her action against the brutality of the gang hit me most. All she was guilty of was looking different but that was enough to get her killed.
What monsters this society is producing and it isn’t the people wearing black clothes and listening to allegedly depressing music.