The Two Jasons

Kids can be pretty cruel. During middle school, I was a target of what felt like some pretty serious bullying based on this tendency I had to overreact.

The social pressure we all were under led us to try to find creative ways to be cruel, so other kids would think we were clever. I’m not sure how much of this I knew how to do before 6th grade, but by the end, I had gotten the idea.

Jason became one of my tormentors. We were pretty similar in some ways: both still emotionally ripening, going through a tough time. It’s probably not much of a surprise that our strong personalities clashed.

At some point, Jason started picking up on things I was sensitive about. I might have a pimple that wouldn’t go away, or—more likely—I’d say something positively absurd, just so I could get some attention, and Jason was right there to cut me back down to Earth.

One of the most cruel of the cut-downs had to do with how big my head was. I will often make jokes today about how my head was around this size back when I was in middle school, and like with most self-deprecating humor, there’s some legitimately painful stuff in there.

Anyway, potato-head became the most common, and you can probably understand why. Mr. Potato Head was a well-known toy most kids had played with growing up, and he was pretty much a giant head with tiny legs and arms. Jason embraced this slogan and called it out whenever he could.

It’s tough to describe the shame I felt during middle school. It’s weird, because it’s probably the first time I ever felt that sort of pressure. I had only just recently learned the importance of wearing the right brand of sneakers, and sarcasm was brand new. This was overwhelming.

I’m not sure why, but I had Jason sign my 7th grade yearbook. Maybe he just grabbed it, or maybe I thought we were reconciling. Here is my middle school trauma, fully on display for you to see:

I don’t mean to paint the picture that I was a saint during this time. I’m quite sure I learned to bully others, reckoning that was my only chance to escape. Such was my middle school experience.

Anyway, fast forward to high school. Things were different for me, at least most of the time. Jason and I might have shared a few classes, and it might be fair to say that our relationship had normalized by the end of high school.

That’s a good thing, because our paths would cross again, but not until after I had met the other Jason.

This Jason was a high school kid, like me, but way into punk rock music. I saw Jason at punk shows with his mohawk spiked up and with black leather and spikes on his wrists and neck. I did not yet look shockingly punk, but I was getting there.

Because I wasn’t nearly as punk as Jason yet, there was a bit of a gatekeeping element. You had to live the lifestyle and embrace the change fully, and if you didn’t do that, you couldn’t be in the inner punk circle. It was middle school all over again for me, and I wanted in.

Even then, I realized how absurd the situation was, but I fell into the trap anyway. I wanted to be thought of as cool. I don’t remember the precise phrases this Jason used, but the vibe was very much the same: you aren’t allowed in this cool kids’ club.

This is around the time when I got my first restaurant job, working at a pizza place inside a mall. I had worked hard for money before this, but this was the first time I was clocking in and out. There was plenty for me to learn.

Here’s where the story gets interesting: it turns out that both Jasons would be training me.

Jason Two (the punk one) had shaved his mohawk so he could work in the pizza shop. He was serious about the job, and he knew how to do it. He trained me rigorously, with rigid rules and guidelines. If anything, Jason was incredibly strict.

I certainly wanted him to think I was cool, and I think he eventually picked up on this. Gradually, we had a pretty good working relationship, although I didn’t see Jason too much after the first couple of months there.

Jason One, by contrast, was very cool to work with. He would let me take a slice of pizza home instead of throwing it away, maybe—I’m not really sure about all the details, but I can say that Jason One was cool to work with. He would show me how to do the job, and he took his time to make sure I understood it.

He liked to commiserate, too. If there was a big dinner rush or a particularly rude customer, Jason would share in that experience with me. One thing we commiserated about a bit was Jason Two, who was relatively hard to get along with.

This was ironic! Here I was with one foot in punk rock culture. I was pointing a middle finger at conformity, and here was someone else who was doing exactly that—but it was the normie who was treating me like a human being, not the punk.

It gradually dawned on me that being a part of a movement does not necessarily mean that you fully embrace that movement.

A year or so later, I ran into Jason Two at a show his band had just played. If I had seen his band play just a couple of years prior to this, I would have worshipped them (so punk!), but by now the spell had been broken. I was more punk than Jason was, or maybe he was just now starting to get out of the scene.

Jason One, who tormented me all through middle school, turned out to be way cooler to work with than Jason Two, whose lifestyle and culture I looked up to. On paper, Jason Two should have been way cooler, but Jason One turned out to be the real winner.

Some of the most interesting moments in my life have been when two worlds have collided. Here, the social prison of middle and high school collided with the freedom of the punk scene in ways that felt very uncomfortable at the time.

Looking back, it’s this very collision of worlds that makes life interesting.