I was 18. It was 1991. I just got kicked out of my first semester of college. I had no direction, extreme frictions with my mother, a divergent relationship with my brother, a serious misunderstanding of my sexuality, and a college experience which resulted in dancing, boys, and alcohol, maybe a bong hit here and there. I didn’t love myself very much at all and was walking aimlessly down the tightrope of my life. The end of that semester left me with hocked records (RIP blue vinyl Minor Threat) and clothes my lovely dormmates decided to sell while I was home, a doomed college relationship with a pothead, and a stolen bank card that the nice fellas I was partying with decided to use at their leisure. I was the Mayor of my own shit city—yay! So what do you do? You ring up your high school besties and end up inside a barn during band practice, hoping they don’t think you’re the next betty in their entourage of hopeless attempts to become scene queen.

I walked down the long hallway of the West Grace Street house, it would be the first of many. My friends were giddy about going over there. I had no idea who this band Avail was or why my friends were worshipping their music. I would soon understand that pivotal entrance and what role they would play in my last years of adolescence and the beginning of adulthood. As we walked down, what seemed like a forever hallway, there was a strum of a guitar amplified, there were guys coming in and out of rooms to the right, music blaring throughout the house. My boys strutting down until being greeted by a tall, handsome dude who looked like he had just awakened. Punk rock dudes weren’t usually handsome, but he had a kind face that I had recognized. It wouldn’t be until a little later that I remembered meeting a dreadlocked Tim Barry earlier that year at a friend’s sisters house. Introductions were made, and I sat on the couch which would comfort me many evenings when I wanted to escape home.

I didn’t meet you upon that first visit, but I did meet the lads of Avail house that day and was left intimidated, self-conscious, excited and inspired. The energy of that house was always that of activity and conversation. One day you could have a conversation about social injustice or the next you’d be greeted by a naked and quite beautifully angry man, eating his cereal, blasting Beastie Boys in the background. I think back then, we were all just angsty, riled up by our peers, music, the world, and what was then a very gritty RVA.

I’m the kind of person that if I see someone or a problem that needs to be fixed, I wanna mend it. It’s who I’ve always been. I’m also a passionate person whose activism lies in the “man on the inside” implosions blueprint. I have been known to protest circuses, spit on fur wearers, and flick cigarettes daily into known racist frat boy houses. I would not have been a part of bricks being thrown at Nazi skinheads RVA, if I hadn’t fallen in love with and fueled by my punk rock community. I would have stayed in the suburbs and died a slow veiled domestic death. All this was integral to our meeting.

Every time I sat on the living room couch, I’d just sit there and listen. If someone engaged with me, I’d talk to them, but for the most part I was still in my shy phase. I liked listening to Zeke bark and growl every time Tim would say “Nazi”. I liked listening to Adam debate, because he was incredibly intelligent and intimidating at the same time. It was entertaining to see who Beau would accost next. It didn’t matter, Avail was peace for me and a place for me to learn. Sure, I was attracted to every man cohabitating there, but it was much deeper than that. There was a respect and admiration I felt there, it was my safe place. I knew I could walk in that door at any given moment and rest my head.

You sauntered in with a huff, sat down on the floor and dumped your bag. I was introduced to you and a mumbled, “Hey, what’s up,” left your bright red lips. Your hair was dark and messily curled at the time, I think you had some blond streaks in it. I was immediately mesmerized by you. “Who was she?” I thought. Your presence was impressive, it commanded attention. The Queen had arrived. “I’ve got to figure out how to get enough for Kinkos,” you muttered in frustration. I decided to be bold. “What are you trying to do?” I asked. I slowly bent over to look at the pieces you had cut out—words, photos in a scattered patchwork of paper. I felt like I was meeting a lioness eye to eye to let her know I was carefully approaching. You had told me you had to get your ‘zine out that week, but had a lot of work to do on it, and from that point on I was intrigued. I said, “Let me help, I’ve got some money.” I lived at home and had a job, I could get some money. And that was the catalyst to what would become a moment in friendship history. You have no idea, but it was YOU who influenced me to write. That day I gave you money to get “Bitch”, the ‘zine out, and mind you, you were reluctant but ever so appreciative to let me help you. It was the significant moment of me becoming more than just a girl in combat boots and kholed eyes who sat on the sidelines admiring her peers.

“Come on,” you instructed. I never asked questions, I just got my shit and we ended up at Kinkos. If we weren’t at Kinkos, we ended up at Way Cool Tattoo where you were shop girl. This was the place my guy friends would get tattooed, play pool, and eventually pierced. You were the only girl I knew at the time who had them, which made you even more badass. Our dynamic-duo friendship was full of curiosity, angst, and love. You played Mama Bear to your little posse. You also had a vulnerability I saw in your eyes, one with a past, one scrapping for a future. You were of strong character, scrappy, funny, and I loved your voice. The voice that could be sweet as honey when you needed something, but just as easily cut through your gut. We rode bikes and skateboards, we drank COPIOUS amounts of coffee at the Village, we dumpster dove, interviewed bands, and you would very quickly become my first roommate. There we would listen to The Descendants, Adolescents, and Crass on our shitty ass record player. The singular most important thing we did together was go to shows, a lot of shows. Anywhere Avail played, we followed. I was in awe of your stage diving, your absolute energy, the way people moved out of your way when you came into a crowd—high priestess of the pit.

I remember going over to Skillet’s house early on. I liked him right away, this strange man whose home was a cross between a garage and a loft of some sort. We dyed our hair green and purple as he made us coffee and we listened to “Bleach”. I remember sitting on the floor and talking with our girlfriends about how lame it is that guys can take their shirts off at shows and it’s no big deal, so why couldn’t we? In true Lara defiance, you created the Bitch Posse as the answer—plaid skirts and white shirts in tow. As I look at it now, was it ridiculous of our pre-adult selves to happily skip into punk rock shows with a ‘don’t fuck with us’ Harley Quinn attitude only to end up in our bras singing and sweating like the rest of ‘em? Nope, those were my proudest moments. I felt like for the first time in my life I was actively making a statement, and it felt liberating to have that kind of cool respect as we elbowed and pushed and pulled and dove in a frenzy of boys. When you’re young and full of piss and vinegar, the world is ripe for the taking. You gave me that.

I remember so much from our time together. I remember a lot of good times, even though there were some pretty bad times. I remember laying on your bed and having deep conversations about relationships, current events, books, the scene, whatever would come up. You were this wild creature to me and I fed off of your ability to be independent and strong. That you could be cute in lace, and kick ass in leather at the same time, but above all be yourself. You opened a world for me that may or may not have been so accessible in all its truth. I cherished the days of basking in the sun on the small balcony of our first apartment, while commenting on the whereabouts of our neighbors. I remember that Portsmouth show where we saw Groove and Hgual for the first time. I remember numerous 7-11 trips and when you got that breakfast tattoo. I remember the Gwar video and how you made me go with you. I remember the time you called me to go swimming at the hotel after we hadn’t seen each other in a minute. All the coffee, cigarettes and hair dye—we had some special moments you and I.

If it weren’t for you and Avail, I wouldn’t have met the incredible and influential people who would become lifelong friends. If it weren’t for you encouraging me to speak my voice in written form, I don’t think I would have had the confidence to do so. If it weren’t for you I would not have felt safe walking around Grace Street at 3am. If it weren’t for you I would have never experienced women to women relationships that were brutally honest and sincere. You gave me so much, Lara. Even though our paths forked in the end, I always welcomed that smile. I’m so saddened that I couldn’t protect you the way you did for me all those years ago. If only you could see how much you meant to so many. You were my first superhero and I will never forget the impact you made on my life. I won’t forget the fight you put in me. And now, all I can see is you riding that BMX bike with your hair on fire, tongue out and ready to take on the world. May you finally find peace and may that fire still burn in us as it once did, you will be missed and appreciated for the mark you left.