Like a lot of suburban kids in the 1980s, one of the great joys of my young life was going to the mall with my friends. Unsupervised mall trips represented a certain freedom that we could see shining its light through the tunnel of adolescence, beckoning us like bugs to a zapper.

Our mall trips generally involved doing a whole lot of nothing, but there were three stops that made a day at the mall something to look forward to all week: a visit to the photo booth, a flip through the records at Woolworth’s and a stop at the Keyhole; that muggy little shop that was packed from floor-to-ceiling with novelty and rock paraphernalia.

The Keyhole had all the things that kids loved and parents hated; candy cigarettes, those screaming-whistle things, black light posters and bulbs, silky banners of the latest artists, tattoo magazines, gag gifts, and the reason for my regular visits: band buttons.

They had several spinning displays that had so many different buttons on them that they overlapped and concealed each other. They had buttons from every band and musician that I loved: Michael Jackson, Duran Duran, the Thompson Twins, Culture Club, the Cure, Depeche Mode, the Police, and so on.

The buttons were cheap enough that I could pick up one or two each visit, but their cultural significance greatly outweighed their kid-friendly price. As I’m sure you remember, adolescent culture pushes you to define yourself, yet it doesn’t provide the funds or freedom that such a massive undertaking requires. Opportunities to create an independent reality are few and far between, but music—and the cultures that spring up around it—provides a nice little portal of entry into self-exploration and expression.

I see this happening with my young friends. They gravitate toward music that speaks to them; that gives them a glimpse into different realities; that gets them moving down the intimidating-yet-exhilarating road of self-determination. And, since listening to music is a one-way affair, they start expressing their new-found musical freedom through the means that are available to them: writing on binders, jeans and shoes, buying t-shirts of their favorite artists, going to shows, and wearing band buttons; those perfect little totems of music fandom.

Band buttons are utilitarian, and the greatest tool of advertising and expression in the history of music scenes. I often marvel at the fact that you can tell so much about a person by the music that they listen to, and what better way to get right to the chase than to just wear your favorite bands on your clothing? I don’t even have to say, “I like the Black Keys.” It’s right there on my favorite jacket, next to the Cure and Neko Case buttons. But that particular combination is just one of many possible combinations. I have a bunch of buttons that regularly rotate around my hoodies, t-shirts, jeans and bags. The colors can be utilized to make anything look like an outfit, and their mere presence never fails to open up interesting conversations about music.

As far as I can tell, buttons were first created for political purposes and were originally made of different metals, with designs printed right onto them. The game changed when cellulose hit the scene. The protective coating it provided meant that images could be printed on paper, and then sealed around a button. This technique allowed for an increase in the colors, details, text and price of buttons. Suddenly, anyone could become a button-maker.

Somewhere around the time of the early Beatles, buttons became a widespread pop-culture phenomenon. The peace sign, the happy face, the “War is Not Healthy”; it was an explosion of self-expression that was accessible to everyone. Bands, artists, activists, individuals and companies started using buttons to further their cause.

Buttons started out pretty humble in size. Some of the early political ones are tiny. Then they moved a bit bigger with 2 and 3 inch buttons. Then, in a slightly unfortunate move, they became enormous, and every mom in the bleachers had a button of her kid’s face taking up a good 5 inches across her chest. I think that there was a collective-conscious decision made, however, that those ones were a bit much, and most of the sporty-oversizers have been retired to the cork-boards of memorabilia.

Once saucer-sized buttons faded from the scene, 2 and 3 inch buttons held it down for a while, but they felt a bit dated, and it was hard to find really great ones. Then—excuse me if I tear up a bit here—came the emergence and takeover of the 1” button. They are perfect. You can say everything that you need to say, put an interesting graphic on it, stamp out a couple of hundred of them and bam, you’re in the game. The 1 inchers are small enough to be slightly inconspicuous; they require that you’re actually in front of the wearer to see what they are. But, they’re still big enough that you can build an outfit around their colors and design, and rock a small, yet totally visible image of your favorite band, with pride.

I’m sure that some consider me a bit too old to be wearing band buttons, and maybe it seems like I’m over-stating the importance of these little things, but to me, band buttons represent things that I really dig: creativity, music, design, type, print-culture, expression and diversity. So, in the spirit of remixing a poem that has never really spoken to me anyway, when I am an old woman, I shall wear band buttons.