UPDATED August 1st, 2016
I was fifteen and somewhat chubby, my Latina pubescence at its peak, my bangs in total defiance of gravity, and I had a face-full of cystic acne—but nothing could keep me down. I stood among the muck and grime of all of the eager, sweaty fans in the Miami Arena, where the venerable vixen Joan Jett was going to hit me with her best shot as the opening act for Aerosmith. Unsightly black leather boots stomped on the cigarette-butt laden bleachers, and the smell of stale smoke and beer breath hung in the air. But like I said, not a thing could keep me down. Because the music, you see, somehow always manages to keep me up.