Lady Gaga Versus The Culture of Fear

I’ve been wanting to blog about Lady Gaga for some time now. My husband adores her. She speaks to his European soul. I’m not so convinced. The first time I heard Just Dance, I thought the song rocked, or whatever kids say now. And then I heard the lyrics. My first thought was, “not my daughter!”

I’m not so middle-aged that I can’t remember, vividly, what I did as a young adult in my late teens and early twenties. The “Just Dance” experience of being so blitzed that I didn’t know the name of the club, let alone where I’d left my friends, was the least of it. It’s not a period in my life that I’m proud of. Mostly I’m just glad I survived it. I’m not prepared as a parent to watch my children go through similar experiences. I’m terrified about what could happen to them, especially my daughter – which makes no sense since boys are just as vulnerable as girls. It can keep me awake at night. What if they get drunk? What about rufies and drugs? In my day everyone worried about AIDS, but now – it’s like a free for all! Kids not only think they’re invincible, so is everyone else, and it’s just not true. We’re delicate and easily damaged. I’m starting to hyperventilate.

My family recently went through a bout of the flu, and while I was up at 3:00 in the morning listening to my baby’s laboured breathing and coughing, checking out his fever, I started to worry. Did we have H1N1? What were the signs? Should I pack everyone up and head to the hospital in the middle of the night? Should I get the kids vaccinated? What happens if I get it? I have significant allergies that prevent me from getting the flu vaccine. I mentioned this late one night or early one morning to my husband who quickly lost his patience. “You always think you’re going to die when you get sick. Would you please stop it?! It’s the flu. It sucks, but it is what it is. If it was fun they’d call it a party.” I did not receive this editorial comment well.

After a cooling off period, as I was doing the dishes with my mp3 player on, to drown out the sounds of sick children and my opinionated partner, it occurred to me that he was right. Again. *sigh*. This fear of the flu inspired me to purchase more than $65 worth of over the counter medication for the family. It drove me to the clinic twice (which is where I probably got the flu in the first place). I can recite by heart the danger signs of H1N1 for adults and children. I have the sites bookmarked on my blackberry. Yes, 35,000 people in North America die of flu related illnesses each year, but the vast majority have underlying medical conditions or are elderly or otherwise medically compromised. Wait, do my allergies count? Am I compromised? What if...?

That’s the key. What if? I refuse to go to psychics or spiritual advisors because I don’t want to know what happens next. I really am enjoying this life, my family, the choices that I’ve made which have led me to this moment. But I keep anticipating disaster. I used to think that fear kept me alert, but it doesn’t. It distracts from the moment, from what is real, and the anticipation of disaster becomes the goal itself – my own rufie blacking out my common sense and knowledge of what’s important, serious and life-threatening.

Lady Gaga sings that “we may be plastic but we still have fun.” She’s wiser than her age. Enough of the culture of fear – fear of the flu, of the neighbour, of the sound of sirens, of the latest news, of growing up. It’s time to embrace the plastic, and kick the rest to the curb. Let go and just dance. Lady Gaga 1, culture of fear 0.

G.I. Joe vs. Momzilla

The babysitter came tonight and my husband and I went out for an intimate, relaxing early dinner, followed spontaneously by a movie. We didn't want to go home before the kids had been put to bed, and really couldn't think of anything else to do. The "creamery" ice cream experience, which had cost us $16 for two the last time, was quickly vetoed by me, but that's a different blog.

My sweetie told me that the only film he'd be interested in seeing tonight would be G.I. Joe. My husband is 30-something, and he remembers the toys and the cartoon, so it was a little bit of nostalgia combined with the desire to see some heart-pumping action. I really didn't care either way, and knew up front that Julie & Julia would be totally out. So off we went, with our popcorn and supersized soda to share.

What followed was action packed, superficial, and ultraviolent. I should clarify though...it wasn't violent in that you saw limbs blown off or very many gratuitous killings or maimings. If I was a 13 year old boy (or girl for that matter), it wouldn't even occur to me that thousands of people would have died had the action been real. But the car smashes, buildings blown up, planes vapourized, all that represented the unknown, unseen characters that make up the "population".

When I became a mother, I became a mother to the world. Bombings, plane crashes, drownings, violence against children, I feel it all. I can extrapolate the pain and horror and apply it to my life. I am still riveted by the individual tragedies unfolded nightly by the news. I know I'm not the only one. My friends tell me the same thing happens to them, nor is it limited to moms - fathers feel the same pull, but I think deal with it differently. I think dads intrinsically know there are things they can't change or affect, while moms - many of us haven't accepted that we're not in charge and can't rescue everyone.

G.I. Joe is not A History of Violence (I still can't pass a motel without seeing images from that film), Slumdog Millionaire, or Resident Evil. It's possibly more stylized and comic book than Transformers. But if I have anything to say about it, my kids won't be seeing it until they're at least 14. Yet, for all of my self-righteousness, I found myself telling my husband how much I had enjoyed it. And I did enjoy it. It was fast paced and kicked butt. So where does that leave me?

Back before we were parents, my husband and I used to let off steam by playing the video game Doom. It was a first-person shooter game that took place on Mars or some place in outer space. It really didn't matter. What mattered was there were really yucky monsters that devolved into even yuckier corpses when I shot them with the mouse. We'd play this for hours - him driving using the cursors and me shooting using the mouse. We'd talk about what we'd do when we had kids - dressing them in little Doc Martens and baby Rage Against the Machine diaper shirts, exposing them to a wide range of music, art and thought.

Now, umpteen years later, parents of three, nearing middle-age, my husband admitted as we were driving home that he couldn't stomach the G.I. Joe cartoon when he was younger. "We'd just come from Italy," he said. "The militarism of the cartoon was hard for me. We still have conscription - there's no choice. Italians know what putting the military in charge leads to - it's fascism." Our children can watch Bugs Bunny, but not Power Rangers, and certainly not Transformers or G.I. Joe. We have exposed them to a wide range of music and their favourite is Doo Wop. Nudity in classical art ("mommy, why is 'the Thinker' naked?") is ok, but fashion magazines are banned. I have become a censor for my children, but haven't applied that same morality to myself. Maybe it's time.

The violence of Doom has evolved into the proxy killings of Call of Duty, which I would never let into my house. I used to snicker that my mother, who ran kids programs at a local library, would only read young adult novels. She'd say, "I like them. They're so well written they don't need to be gratuitous." Now, finally, I understand. And while I'm waiting for my friend to lend me Julie & Julia, I think I'll take another look at Judy Blume or S.E. Hinton. They're more my speed. Stay gold, pony boy.