The Summer I Learned to Scream (Again)

 June's here and the cicadas are back — which means nature is screaming unapologetically again, and I love it.

I stepped outside this morning with my usual coffee and Clash tee, and the noise hit me like an old record I forgot I loved. All buzz, no pretense. It made me think: when did we stop screaming? When did we get polite about everything?

When I was sixteen, I found my voice in a basement show in someone’s rented house, sweat dripping from the ceiling, feedback bouncing off concrete walls. It wasn’t about sounding good — it was about sounding real. Somewhere between aging, parenting, and paying for things like plumbing repairs, I think I started muting myself a bit.

But summer always shakes that off. I feel the itch to turn the volume back up — not just musically, but in how I show up in the world. The punk in me isn’t dead. He just took a nap between orthodontist appointments and work emails.

So here's the vow for this summer: scream a little louder. Say the thing. Wear the patched jacket even if it’s hot. Play the song even if the neighbors don’t like it. Dance weirdly. Love

loudly. Punk never dies — it just needs the sun sometimes.

Now if you'll excuse me, I’ve got a Misfits patch to re-sew and a lawn I’m absolutely not mowing today.

Stay loud,
— Dad (still punk)