I remember exactly what I wore to my first Ani Difranco concert.

It was my junior year of high school. A group of us bought tickets to Ani’s show in Cedar Rapids.

The popularity of Ani Difranco in my small hometown of Hudson, IA was a little suspect. I mean, how did we hear about this little-known, radical folk singer? They certainly weren’t playing her on the radio in our hometown.

On this point, I am fuzzier. My friend Bridget must have introduced me to her, though I can’t remember the exact moment of discovery. We were probably cruising down some gravel roads in Bridget’s blue Mercury Cougar, bored out of our minds, and she popped in an Ani CD.

Some cool, older girls introduced Bridget to Ani a few years before. So the music of Ani Difranco spread from girl to girl to girl in our small town.

Little Plastic Castle was my first Ani album. It sounded a bit more accessible than some of her other albums. More pop, not quite as folk. But the lyrics on Little Plastic Castle are just as thoughtful as the rest of her albums.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a strong bass line or a beat that gets me tapping my toe. (Yes. I do actually tap my toe. Kinda lame, I know.) But I’ve always been a lyrics girl. I mean, I’m a writer.

I like words.

And Ani is an incredibly talented musician, but she is also a great songwriter. Her lyrics are thoughtful, provocative, humorous, sexy, and sometimes, sorrowful. She covers the gamut of human emotions. She never shies away from politics, perhaps the most well-known fact about her.

She is a fiercely pro-choice, anti-gun feminist who stands against big business. She created her own record label, Righteous Babe, so she could produce the kind of music she wanted to make. She does not give a fuck.

In the song “Little Plastic Castle,” she sings,

“And people talk about my image
Like I come in two dimensions
Like lipstick is a sign of my declining mind
Like what I happen to be wearing
The day that someone takes a picture
Is my new statement for all of womankind

And I wish they could see us now
In leather bras and rubber shorts
Like some ridiculous new team uniform
For some ridiculous new sport
Quick someone call the girl police
And, and file a report.”

Ani is not everyone’s cup of tea, to be sure. Many of my liberal, music-loving friends find her music distasteful. I mean, folk singers aren’t for everybody, right?

But for me and my friends, Ani was it. She was outspoken. She was fierce. She was real.

Ani also represented a different kind of femininity than the one being jammed down our throats on the daily. And she looked comfortable in her own skin- dreadlocks, combat boots, and all.

And I don’t think many of us were comfortable in our skin yet. I certainly was not.

Though I lacked confidence in other areas, I didn’t doubt my ability to put an outfit together. I’ve been into sequins and acid bright prints since I was old enough to pull my pants up.

In junior high and high school, it was vinyl pants, pale pink patent leather Mary Janes, rings on every finger, a chain wallet, baggy pants, and an endless assortment of baby tees. There were many looks of Pam.

But the Ani concert required a particularly volcanic ensemble (to steal a phrase from Pretty in Pink). I wore a hot pink V-neck sweater that was edged with red sequins, an orange, floral print skirt with side slits, fishnets, and of course, my own pair of Doc Marten combat boots.

At the concert, we watched Ani clump around stage in her big, combat boots with her dreads flying. She tore our hearts out with every pluck of the guitar. She was the kind of woman we all wanted to be. And seeing her live just cemented our love for Ani.

I own sixteen of her albums. My girl is also incredibly prolific. And I’ve seen her probably nine times since that first concert.

And every time, she makes me dance and smile. And every time, I leave feeling a little bit fiercer, a little more fearless, a little bit more comfortable in my own skin.