Telegraph Avenue was no utopia through the 1990s, but cohesion and accountability among its vibrant ‘gutter punk’ scene struck a balance between freedom and communal care.
When I first arrived in Berkeley, I only planned to stay for a few days before continuing my journey to Seattle. Needless to say, things didn’t go as planned, and I’ve now lived in and around Berkeley for the better part of 28 years.
I was born and raised in Santa Monica. My childhood instilled in me a strong sense of justice and morality, but I struggled to connect with my peers. My mother was a self-proclaimed “tiger mom,” and her protective style of parenting made it difficult to relate to others my age. I was bullied and beaten up in elementary school, and it took every ounce of her self-restraint not to confront the boys who made my life miserable. As I grew into adulthood, I developed that same protective instinct.
At 16, I started living on the streets and found community among the local gutter punks, who quickly adopted me as one of their own. It’s particularly ironic because I’m not very fond of punk rock music, but when I arrived in Berkeley and was welcomed with open arms and kindness by everyone I met, it was a shock to my system. The love and respect that had been so absent throughout my youth were given freely here. It changed me in ways I’m still grateful for.
It’s hard to understand, let alone explain, but the world was different in the late 90s—at least here in Berkeley—and especially on Telegraph Avenue (where I lived on the street for the first year or so). Sure, people did drugs and drank, just as they do now, but there wasn’t the same level of property crime, and people seemed to have more respect for their surroundings. I’m not claiming Telegraph was a utopia, but there was a sense of cohesion and accountability that’s harder to find these days.
My adoptive family members ranged from people who were my age to people in their 50s. Color didn’t matter. Age rarely mattered. Gender didn’t have the same significance that it did in some other circles. What mattered was how you conducted yourself and how you treated others.
If someone was found to be fucking up, we handled it. If their offense was severe enough, they would get beaten up and escorted to the nearest BART station, where we would make sure they got on the next train out of Berkeley—even if we had to pay their fare.
My early life with the gutter punks didn’t just teach me to stand up for myself, it also gave me the strength to lay a foundation for my activism—to advocate for those on the streets who cannot fight for themselves.
I was usually the first to step in when someone came up to me or a friend and tried to pick a fight, calling them out and challenging them. I must have looked like the human version of a Chihuahua—younger, smaller, and shorter than just about everyone else, but louder and feistier than I had any right to be. But my street family was always behind me, clad in crusty, patch-covered clothing adorned with chains, spikes, safety pins, and bottle caps, ready to back me up if things got out of hand. More often than not, the person I confronted would back down, many times without even noticing the small army all around us. I imagine they thought I had something up my sleeve—a gun, maybe, or martial arts training. Whatever they thought, they didn’t want to find out what would happen if they pushed any further. And they were right.
The truth is, I emerged stronger in spirit and more confident in myself because of the camaraderie and solidarity I experienced during my time with the gutter punks.
You may be wondering if I was safe living on the streets with such a rough crowd in my teenage years. Well, in all my years living on the streets, those I spent with the gutter punks were some of the safest.
Not everything was about safety and survival. There were plenty of fun times too.
If you were walking down the street and found a safety pin on the ground, it was customary to say, “Look, it must be summer. The gutter punks are shedding!”
One time a random new kid showed up on Telegraph, standing by the “Punk Fence”—the wrought-iron fence surrounding the empty lot on the northeast corner of Telegraph and Haste at the time. He was “spanging”—our term for panhandling, a verb made from the words “spare” and “change”—and the first thing we noticed was how dirty he looked, even by our standards. He kept saying he needed money for a “40”—a 40-ounce bottle of beer—so we started calling him “Needs a 40.”
After a couple of days, we noticed something else—his smell. This kid was ripe. So we changed his name to “Needs a Bath.” And when I say that was his name, I mean that’s what we called him to his face, the same way you’d call someone by whatever name they introduced themselves by.
But “Needs a Bath” was a mouthful, so eventually we shortened it to “Stench.” And Stench he remained until he eventually left town for his next adventure. To this day, I don’t think any of us ever learned his real name.
There was also a stretch when we played a street game: you had to keep anything given to you by someone else—no matter what it was. A rock, a receipt, a leaf, a pair of panties, an empty takeout container.
At any point, the giver could ask to see the item, and you had to produce it. There was no prize for winning and no penalty for losing. It was just fun.
There were sad times, too. Like when our friend Fester died.
We had known Fester—along with his father and younger siblings—since he was 14. He was one of those people who was naturally funny, quick-witted, and brilliant. Like many of us, he had started running with gutter punks as a teenager. But unlike me, who stayed in one place, Fester traveled everywhere: tree sits in Oregon, Mardi Gras in New Orleans. But he always returned home to the Bay Area.
At 17, he decided it was time to settle down and pursue a career in teaching. Everyone was thrilled for him. But first, he wanted to travel one last time. Tragically, just after his 18th birthday, he was found dead in a Philadelphia alleyway.
The loss shattered us all. To make things harder, his funeral was in Santa Rosa—which was a problem, since gutter punks don’t usually have cars. But like an angel with a Chevy Suburban, long-time Bay Area punk scene photographer Larry Wolfley stepped up to help. Load after load, he ferried us from Berkeley to Santa Rosa so we could say goodbye.
The initial reaction to our arrival was cold. Fester’s mom and her family had never approved of his lifestyle. But she soon saw we were all there for the same reason: to mourn her son, our dear friend and family member.
As my friend Solo and I stood by Fester’s casket, we realized something was missing—his septum ring. The coroner must have removed it, and we knew he’d want to be buried with it. So I went around asking everyone for spare jewelry—like spanging, but more specific.
Just as I asked the last person, the door opened. It was Joe, a friend I hadn’t spoken to in years. I explained the situation, and without hesitation, he pulled the ring from his own septum and handed it to me.
I walked back to Fester and, after some effort, got the ring into his nose. That sparked a wave of people taking turns decorating our fallen friend—one friend gifted him their baseball cap, something Fester wore every day. I wrapped a lock of my hair around his fingers. We tucked a paper cup by his shoulder—to acknowledge his legendary spanging—and filled it with whatever change we had.
It felt ritualistic, adorning our fallen comrade with things he’d want in the afterlife. The mood shifted between somber and laughter.
It was a miserably hot and humid day in Santa Rosa, and someone noticed ants had started crawling into the coffin. One of us found a can of Raid and proceeded to spray the casket—a smell that still takes me back to that day. Outside, smoking with one of Fester’s aunts, she joked, “If he were alive, he’d say, ‘Damn! The one living thing in here, and you go and kill it!’” We laughed and realized she must be where he got his sense of humor.
The funeral turned into a miniature party, celebrating Fester’s life. Someone brought 40s, and every speaker took a swig—even some of the little old ladies from his mom’s side.
By the end, people from all walks of life were hugging and embracing each other, united in our grief. Then, load after load, Larry drove us back to Berkeley.
I was raised to be accepting of—and even to appreciate—the differences people have. And my life has been better and happier because of it. People can be so judgmental toward those who look different from them, often labeling them as “bad.” If only they could approach others with the same open-mindedness they hope to receive in return.
Just think about how much better and happier everyone’s lives might be if they did the same.
Amber Whitson is an activist, writer, advocate, and survivor. She is not going anywhere anytime soon.