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12:50 p.m. - 01/07/03
confessions.
My dad is playing standard sugary Christmas music. I'm playing an mp3 mix heavy on the Smashing Pumpkins. Ah, the diversity within families.

I'm working on a new poem, one I've been meaning to write for some time, but never felt motivated to actually work on until now. And as usual, I'm having to scribble, "I will write a poem about ___ another time" in the margins so that I don't try and squash twenty subjects into a single piece. My early notebooks are a mess of that. Let's talk about cutting and abuse and depression and relationships and school and life and the rise of Nazism in pre-war Germany. I'm amazed my writing teachers didn't rub their temples and pop Excedrin. I'm amazed I'm learning to partition my subject matter a bit. Growth is good. Anyway, it's a bit of an anthem, which has me thinking about other anthems, and preparing to confess something I strongly considered (perhaps even decided) I wasn't going to write about here. Thus, I submit the shocking tale of-

Mary Brave's Adventures In The Mainstream:

I did it. After chickening out twice, after nearly having panic attacks, after pacing the aisles of several different music stores, feeling sick and thinking, "No, no, no, you can't," I did it. I picked up a copy of a pop cd- a pop DIVA cd, a fucking Britney-Spears-equivalent-I-do-not-listen-to-this-corporate-contrived-bullshit album. I handed it to my dad, nearly whimpering, handing him also the money to pay for it. The store was big; maybe no one had seen me. "I can always sell it at [the used cd store] if it's awful," I said hopefully. He didn't respond. Please. I wanted to say. Tell me I'm not horrible for buying this. Tell me I'm not worth less because I found myself singing a pop single when I caught my reflection in the mirror and feeling better because of it. Tell me I'm more than that, and I'm ok.

Unfortunately, my dad is a bit slow on the uptake when I articulate my pleas. The unspoken ones tend to fall fruitless.

Nevertheless, third time's the charm, I managed to walk out of the store with the album in hand. My parents seemed surprised by my anxiety over the purchase but didn't jump to argue it either. I started passively begging for permission to own this, arguing the prosecution, in hopes they'd pick up my defense. "But look at it!" I said, showing them the cover. "It's Christina Aguilera. It's called "Stripped". There's a song on it called Dirty, and she spells it with three r's!" My parents, despite the constant arguing that would imply debates skills, seemed unwilling to refute such evidence against me. "Well," my mom sighed, "what's the song you like? There is a song you like, isn't there?"

Yes, there is; it's "Beautiful." Something about the relevance of that song, the personal experience that it affirms, the memory of listening to pop music (occasionally with such messages) at Rogers. Memories of Tracy's music. I heard that song in the car with Sarah when she was in for Christmas ("So," I inform my parents, "it's officially Sarah's fault"), and I had to admit that despite the sappy pop style, the lyric clicked with me. Not to mention that Aguilera's vocal melodrama seemed fitting, seemed to capture that moment when you're starting to cry and screaming "Fuck You!" simultaneously.

And maybe, I told myself, I need it just because it's so hard to have it. I mean, if I like it at all, maybe it'll be good for me. After all, it's sad that I feel so ashamed to want this, to even consider wanting this. It's sad that I'm concerned with what people with think if I buy this CD, as if I'll instantly be put in the Girls-Who-Like-Pop-Divas box. Why am I not concerned about being put in the Girls-Who-Like-Tori-Amos box? Why do I allow myself to be minimized into one box, when I know I'm not that easily identified, but balk at another? I don't believe that girls who like pop music are less good than girls who like folk. Why am I acting as if I do? After all, even if it is ironic, the fact that I like a Christina Aguilera song, actually makes me more complex (she justifies) because it helps to break me out of the boxes within which my *accepted* labels place me.

Still not having listened to the album, I continued on the way toward accepting this purchase, realizing that the infiltration of such messages into pop culture really was good and important- and even if this isn't my kind of music, I can have respect for someone who is offering that sort of message to the demographic perhaps most influenced by the media. That's right; I had, despite the Dirty with three rs, despite the title of the album, despite the cover, and everything I knew about her up until that point, decided to have some respect for Christina Aguilera. If only to maintain a tiny bit of respect for myself.

At home, I hesitantly let it play. "See," I said, "it's not awful. It's just pop music. There's nothing inherently *evil* about pop music." A few songs later, I was bored, took a break, felt a little better, came back. I found myself disinterested in the relationship songs and skipping tracks that titles and lyrics suggested might cause me to involuntarily throw the disc out a window. I did some research and happily discovered another way out of my post-pop-purchase guilt: the songs I liked, without exception, were written and influenced by Linda Perry (of the four non-blondes) as is the only other current pop song I like- by Pink. Sad as it is, relief swept over me. I pushed the name into my brain, played "Beautiful" a bit more, and let the CD off. I still haven't listened to it all the way through. I still refuse to play certain songs. I still follow it up with the Indigo Girls or Melissa Ferrick- anyone who can ground me in myself again, convince me I haven't turned into That Type Of Girl overnight. I still don't appreciate that I can't accept this in myself.

Today, my justifications took another blow, though, when I read descriptions of the video for the track I so appreciated (Beautiful.) When I read the casting call for said video. No one seems certain if it's genuine or simply an all-too-well executed statement, but nonetheless with phrases like, "must be extraordinarily skinny" - "must look anorexic" - and "lesbian women [who] appear instantly feminist" ... it's basically everything I hate. Granted, I also hate jumping to conclusions based on rumors, (after all, the call is poorly written and contains spelling errors)- but if this is actually what's represented in the video, I may stop sighing only long enough to scream. How do I balance between needing to learn it's ok to like a pop song and boycotting all things abrasive? I can't support music that supports ideas like "looking anorexic" or "looking feminist." But I need to break out of my box. Oh, the confusion.

They're odd constructs: these boxes in which we place ourselves. I was thinking about them in terms of relationships, too, realizing that hoping I'm not straight has to do in part with the idea that more of who I am fits into the gaygirl box than it does into the straightgirl one. I don't feel strong enough to sustain myself in a traditional relationship. If I'm going to settle for a general identity, I want the one that's closest to who I am. I want to be the Tori-Amos-Girl, not the Britney-Spears-One. All I can do now is be stronger in myself. I have to find a way to be myself no matter what the situation. I have to be so strong in myself that even if I fall in love with a boy or decide I like the Backstreet Boys, who I am is not compromised.

I have to stick to my defintion of myself, and I have to give my definition the freedom to be what it is, in spite of my fears.

Oop.
chord

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