Back in the 90’s there was a phenomenon of dancing called “Moshing”. This is where you get with a group of people who would randomly bump into each other for no other reason than releasing pent up aggression and hormones. This was predominantly done in the teenage and young adult circuits.
One day at the beginning of senior year my friend had just announced that there would be a group performing at her church across the street. We were all excited and loved live music. There couldn’t have been a more fitting beginning to last year of high school. The night of the concert, we assembled with many local teenagers in the church parking lot to hear some grunge music. Well; Christian grunge music.
When I told my boyfriend at the time about the concert, he agreed he was going as well with his group of friends. In conversation with him leading up to the concert he had joked that I could go in the “baby” mosh pit which “is next to the actual, much larger mosh pit.” He made the comment away from me, chuckling with his friends. Unbeknownst to him this irritated me to my very core. There is nothing more I don’t like than being told I can’t do something.
When I arrived at the concert with my friends, it was hot, the sun was about to set and we were waiting for the band to come out on the stage. We began to cheer when four young men clad in orange shirts with the word “Juda” on them appeared. By the time they were in their second song, a small crowd of moshers began stomping, ramming into each other with their shoulders.
I had just been told I couldn’t do something because I’m a girl and I wanted in.
I didn’t blink when I fled from my boyfriend’s side. I ran into the sweaty cesspool of teenagers and began ramming myself against strangers. It was a strange freeing experience feeling like a pinball being struck against others who were going through their own angsty rebellion. In that brief moment running from being a spectator in my life I became a mover and shaker. We did what we did because we could. Nobody could stop us and it was incredible.
The crowd then started to give way from moshing to surfing people through the crowd on a sea of teenaged phalanges. It was very much like the scenes you see in movies where hippies, metal heads, or hair band fans are frenetically dancing and begin passing people over their heads while the person being surfed has an epiphany. In the movies the scene plays out over some poignant music of that decade in an arena or an open farm field like Woodstock. This scene played out in four to ten parking spaces.
When I looked to my left, the people launching others into the crowd were my boyfriend’s friends. He was standing in front of me to the left of them, just watching me. Not looking at him, I sensed his disapproval at what I was about to accomplish. I smiled at his friends as they put their hands down and we gave each other the signal. I ran full force, stepping into their grasp in my beloved brown Doc Martens as they launched me into the air.
I flew. In that moment I had no fear and was full of trust. I landed on a bed of fingers, with nails of metallic blue, gently rolling me through the crowd as I screamed all the air out of my lungs. 
The crowd gently set me back down on the ground as the music began to pick up. When I was placed on the ground, I hadn’t quite found my footing yet. The rush from being carried by a crowd full of adrenaline quickly stopped when two moshers accidentally knocked me to the ground. When I tried to get up their buttocks hit my head on the left and right side knocking me down again. I crouched in a Spider-man stance getting a whiff of something rancid. One of the gluteus maximuses had passed gas. I got up again only to be struck repeatedly by the pair of posteriors. I was able to perfunctorily wiggle my way out of the permeated labyrinth of derrieres when one of the owners of said derrieres lended a hand pulling me up. A few moments later a church official called out saying there would be no more crowd surfing.
They should have been more specific. We still moshed.
What is something you were discouraged from doing but did anyway? What did/do you do as an act of rebellion?
Diary of a quirky girl 
I only went to one concert in my life where there was a mosh pit. I was female, American and 55 years old and part of a group of much younger male Mexican artists. We were sponsoring the concert to collect money for relief for our village that had been badly damaged in an avalanche. I must admit I stood to the side, but took some satisfaction in realizing that although I was 25 to 35 years older than everyone else, at least I was still there observing the action!
That is quite the story! Do you mind if I ask where in Mexico this was at? You were part of an action to make things right again and that is wonderful! With music, as I’ve gotten older, I think it doesn’t matter what your age is as long as your heart is there with the listeners and performers. ;-). That is so cool you got to be a part of something so big!
I was living, and still am, in San Juan Cosala, which was the village damaged in the landslide. We staged the concert in Ajijic, 5 km. away. Both villages are located on Lake Chapala, the largest lake in Mexico, about an hour away from Guadalajara.
Here are photos of the avalanche from up on the mountain where I live. The benefit was for those down below in the village. Miraculously, no one was killed although people were washed out of their homes down into the lake. Most of these photos were taken within a block or two from my home. https://judydykstrabrown.com/2015/11/10/one-word-photo-challenge-pick-your-own-avalanche/
Love your writing… taking full advantage of vicarious living! Thanks!!!
Thank you for being a fervent reader and taking the time to post! Kathleen, thank you for loving my writing and being a huge supporter in real life too!!! ❤