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I thought we would all appreciate a little lightness over here, after some rather gloomy material this past month. My worries haven’t vanished, far from it. And I find myself in the middle of a big shift that may or may not materialize externally over the next few months. Only time will tell, and I will, of course, keep you posted. For now, suffice it to say that I am feeling the ground moving from under my feet, and that inner peace has proved elusive for the past few weeks. The January factor, again, I’m telling you. And so far, February doesn’t seem to have received the memo that it was supposed to move the family to a better, pinker, more Valentine-like space. Next week we’ll be in the mountains, however. Let’s hope that THAT will finally clear the air.
In the meantime, I thought it might be a relief to finally address the elephant in the room – not exactly the perfect metaphor for the lightness I’m going for, I know. And you have no idea what I’m talking about, I’m sure. I am fully aware that the elephant only exists in my room. But it is there for me, and a topic I’ve been wanting to broach for a while, without finding the right moment. Now that we are getting closer to the Super Bowl, however, there is no dancing around the subject anymore. Yes, my husband’s hometown team is playing, but that is not what I’m talking about. What matters today is what matters to the rest of America, and maybe the world, e.g. the other team, and, more specifically, the other team’s main cheerleader in the person of Taylor Swift. I know, I know. Who needs more Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce material right now? I certainly don’t, and I promise I will not get into the whole Tokyo concert/game attendance drama.
But as the mother of a half-American twelve-year old girl, it was only going to be so long until I addressed the Taylor Swift phenomenon, and today seems as good a time as any. After this past month, I need some lightness and sheer frivolity in my life. While still struggling with my older teen boy, I need the fun and silliness of early adolescence. I need my girl’s Taylor playlist 24/7 in the kitchen, her shrieks of utter delight upon finding out that Taylor has a new album coming out. I need her going on and on about the Grammys, and her strong opinions about the wardrobe choices of female attendees.
Six months ago, I admit, I did not get it. When my husband proudly announced that he had secured two tickets to Taylor’s Paris concert, I shrugged and thought to myself that this Swiftie mania would quickly fizzle out. All her songs sounded the same to me, and I could never quite bring myself to engage with my daughter when she tried to awaken me to the subtleties separating “Cruel Summer” from “Mastermind”. This was all too girly for my taste, and I was sure that she would soon get over this fad.
That is, until we saw The Film. When my daughter asked if she could go with her friend, I fully expected to not be involved. But it turned out the only showings in Paris were after 8 pm and I surely didn’t want two young girls to go and come home by themselves at midnight. Already the fact that the movie would last over three hours left me suspicious. But when her friend’s mom asked if she could join us because she was kind of dying to see the movie, I became utterly confused. Why on earth would she want to do that when she could have the evening to herself? “Mom, she knows. You’re the one who’s completely clueless”- this was, in substance, my daughter’s response. At that point I still had my doubts, but a form of curiosity was awakened. As we were getting ready that night, I found myself almost excited, wondering what exactly I was about to see.
But I was still far from understanding what it was all about. In my mind, we were going to see a movie. So, I was fully expecting to sit down with my popcorn, or candy – I don’t like popcorn, come to think of it, - and watch a pop star I knew little about, sing and dance on a big screen. But my daughter and her friend knew already. So they rushed to the front row, leaving the moms behind. And no sooner had the credits come on that they were standing up and shrieking with the rest of the theater, except for the moms in the back. We were not, it turned out, at a movie. We were at a concert, and I suddenly felt very, very old. Two minutes in, and the girls, and some boys, were shaking wildly, brandishing their phones to film… the film. My daughter came home with almost three hours of footage. Three hours of Taylor Swift singing behind two superimposed screens, but more present to those girls than anything else they might be learning or experiencing at this moment. As I watched my girl jumping and shrieking and shaking her hair at the feet of the giant Goddess projected on the screen, it felt like I had been nurturing a strange kind of creature in my house without knowing it, and that suddenly a vibrant, colorful, exuberant chimera was out in the world, dancing in that theater, magically knowing every single world of every single one of the roughly forty songs performed.
This is what left me the most perplexed, I think. When, and where, had my daughter found the time and space to memorize all those songs? How did she even know them? Yes, she did spend some time listening to music on her phone or her grandfather’s old Pod. But I hadn’t realized it was all Taylor Swift. In fact, I was pretty sure it wasn’t always her. But there it was, all the less famous songs from the very first albums, all the country ballades I had never heard about. She and her friend, and all the girls around us, knew them by heart and never missed a beat. Where was I all those months when my daughter was dutifully absorbing all those lyrics? Where was I when she was turning into the teenage girl I had been fleetingly in the early 1990’s, when, like everyone else, I was dying to see Madonna on tour and actually get to see Michael Jackson with my best friend from high school? Even then, I knew some of their songs, but certainly not ALL of them, and usually only sections of them. And several stars competed for my favors, our favors. But right now, for my daughter, and seemingly a large percentage of her generation, it is only Taylor, and nothing but Taylor.
I wonder what explains it, but seeing the movie gave me some clues. Taylor Swift does not seem to be part of a separate world, the way Madonna seemed to be. She is a pop star but could also be your friend. You can imagine yourself, and her, sharing stories over coffee in oversized football team or college sweatshirts. She sings and talks to tens of thousands of people in those huge stadiums, but at times, when she’s at the piano or holding her guitar, addressing the crowd, it feels like she is only talking to YOU. Yes, even when you are seating in a movie theater thousands of miles aways and several months later. I don’t remember any pop star creating this kind of intimacy with her audience, while maintaining her otherworldly status. Madonna was too different from me, I guess, ever the goody-goody. No matter how much I loved her songs, her bad girl persona kept her in a different plane. But Swift seems so wholesome, so quietly sure of herself without ever giving off smugness or arrogance. She seems to be fully comfortable with herself, and telling us that if we wanted, we could be that girl too, both normal and capable of creating an extraordinary life for herself. My daughter, at least, sees her as a sister, and I can understand why.
Now I know why she has been crossing the days on her calendar until May 12, when Taylor will be capping the Paris chapter of the Eras tour. Needless to say, after telling my husband for months that he could use the second ticket if he wanted, I have now made it perfectly clear that it will be for me. And I have already received detailed instructions on how to use face glitter and start planning my outfit based on one of the Eras. My closet is utterly devoid of anything that would fit the bill, but I still have two months to figure it out. Some sparkly Louboutin boots actually sound perfect to me, if I can get my hands on a pair and have someone pay for them. Sixty-four days should give me plenty of time.
I realize I have no way of connecting this post with cooking, today. If I think of something later, I will add it, but right now I am sorry to say that there is nothing. I will just enjoy the weekend of traveling and silly, mindless gossiping with my girl about whether Taylor will make it on time to the Super Bowl, what she will be wearing, and whether we should switch our allegiance and root for the Chiefs. My San Franciscan husband will kill us, but I suspect even him might understand.
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