This ferocity is but one facet of a greater vigilance in my mom; her staunch support for social justice and the strength and grace with which she carries herself lend me the courage to keep my own proverbial fire burning. Also, being a snotty 27 year old, I find myself pompous and overtly proud when I realize my mom is a Generation X-er whose social politics and taste in music are still relevant and evolving. Mom, you are really cool and I love you for that.
She also happens to be one of the few members of my family who can carry a damn tune and while this may or may not be attributable to genetics, in the case that it is, I have her to thank for my predilection toward the noisier art. Thanks also for the garage mom, if I didn't have the escape of that room, if I wasn't afforded the space to blast my ears with amps while lying on the floor feeling depressed, I don't know how I would've turned out. God, she even still comes to my shows. At a DIY punk space in the middle of La Puente, I'm playing music with friends that is generally, too loud, angry, and misanthropic, but there she is, just to my left, bobbin her head with several punk kids at least half her age. Did I mention how cool my mom is?
I could espouse cool-mom anecdotes all day, but really the point I'm trying to make is love. Mom, I'm very thankful to have had someone like you growing up, you've never not been there, and even if we now live in different cities 8 hours apart, you're never far from my thoughts. I love you so much.