Madonna and Me (5 page)

If anything, I rejected Madonna’s antics and camped with the skeptics who tossed her off as a one-hit or—at a stretch—one-album wonder. C’mon, she was from Bay City, Michigan; how high could her lucky star possibly rise?

If only I’d been paying closer attention. In sixth grade I moved to northern Michigan, where, among the rolling hills and pretty beaches, lurked a surprisingly upstart little town. “Like a Virgin” overtook the charts, and I learned the hard way that pinstriped Lee jeans from Meijer Thrifty Acres—a hot commodity in Bay City—wouldn’t suffice for the social order of my new school. Every morning, the class bully, who for a few weeks played the veiled role of being my friend, asked me “What brand is your shirt?” When I hesitated or
didn’t say the brand Guess, she grabbed my collar to see for herself. It was 1986, and Madonna and I both wanted new identities. Of course, she was eons ahead of trend, spinning retro-personas for the songs on
True Blue
. I just wanted to raise my hand in math class and get asked to a school dance. It took years to learn that a girl rarely gets it both ways.

By high school I’d matured enough to bring my boyfriends home (even the bad apples), and to appreciate Madonna for the game-changing entertainer she’d become. One ho-hum Friday night I rented
Truth or Dare
to rouse the “mixed company” at the unchaperoned party at my house. By Monday, word got round:
Truth or Dare
had caused a stir. My reputation took a hit. Ridiculous! I’m sure I either shook a fist or rolled my eyes.

At this point, I could see the absurdity of what Madonna knew all along: that most social expectations are suffocating, or desperately old-fashioned. Yet in my years of growing up, I don’t recall her making a point of coming back to Michigan to perform. She wasn’t one to call out to her girls this side of 8 Mile. And though I later figured out she didn’t exactly grow up in Bay City—she was born during a visit to her grandparents’ house, and returned often to visit them—she didn’t grow up in “real” Detroit either, with its industrial grit and stronghold on music legend. No, Madonna grew up in its tony suburb, Rochester Hills. A cheerleader and straight-A student. Full scholarship to the University of Michigan. Teen Madonna, it turns out, may have behaved better than I did; I was a straight-A student who only earned partial scholarships. But that’s like saying cake isn’t cake unless it’s frosted. Because let me be clear: No amount of good behavior would have been enough for either Madonna or me. Generations before and since have faced the same limited mindset about how girls should behave. Madonna’s grasp of this enabled her to embrace the idea of girls having it every way, whether the world was ready or not.

That’s why, even as I left adolescence behind, I still felt connected to her as an adult. If ever asked which famous person I’d most like to
meet, she topped my list—I would play the hometown card as an icebreaker, and we’d slap backs in recognition. For a long time she was the only celebrity to whom I could claim a vague personal connection beyond being born in the same town—one of my aunts was a counselor in her younger siblings’ school. Another relative socialized with her father and stepmother, who had moved to northern Michigan and started a winery. For a while, they all sang in the same church choir. Maybe my dreams of meeting Madonna in the flesh weren’t as far-fetched as I’d believed.

So I took note when she moved to England, around 2000, and donned that odd accent, erasing not only her home state but also her home nation. Her abandonment struck a chord. After all, when a gal has high hopes in almost any field, she doesn’t picture a future in the Wolverine State. At least that’s what I decided after high school, when I ventured beyond the state’s borders for college, ultimately landing in Boston. For those who think Michigan is a depressing place to live—a stinky little state—I fashioned Madonna’s ex-pat status into a sign of my own charmed potential.

I still feel like an outsider of sorts in New England, but I am convinced that my most recent iteration as a writer would not have been possible had I not pursued opportunities outside Michigan. Who would I have been if I’d stayed? What about Madonna?

A few summers ago, I visited Madonna’s father’s winery in Sutton’s Bay with my sisters and a few aunts. I’ll admit, we gawked. The tasting room had a wide wooden bar and garish old-world Italian wall decor. The winery had issued a special bottling to commemorate the
Confessions on a Dance Floor
album release. We sipped samples; the wine labels and marketing posters were far from what I’d expected. They weren’t stylish or slick. I couldn’t imagine Madonna had any part in their design. In fact, the artwork was downright cheesy—images of Madonna, two decades after her debut, retro
again, in ’70s dance-floor poses with airbrushed pastels on black. It felt familiar, like it had been done before. The Madonna I knew, even in her fifties, had always been far ahead of cool. I tried to like the wine, but I didn’t.

I could feel my own creeping judgment, as if I, too, had copped an accent I hadn’t earned.

More than once since that afternoon I’ve wondered: at what cost do I remain connected to home, and at what cost do I sever the ties? If I ever found myself at dinner with Madonna, how much would either of us have to say about Michigan, anyway?

It pleased me to read the press clippings my mom saved from the 2008 Traverse City Film Festival. Madonna had arrived by limo and walked the red carpet at the movie house of my adolescence, the State Theater. The
Traverse City Record Eagle
blazed with a full-color picture of her on the front page. But I most appreciated the story about her in the independent weekly
Northern Express
. Though the writer had socialized with Madonna before, she did not respond to his requests for an interview, so he’d had to pen it without her. He chronicled their missed meetings with a generous helping of forgiveness and a few thoughtful points about integrity, superstardom, and small-town life.

Forgive her, Father, for she knows not what she leaves, nor what she takes with her. But if anything’s for certain, Madonna’s just the sort to make an about-face at the drop of her cane and top hat. Tomorrow she could move in to the vacant home next to my mom and dad’s house in Michigan—the one they emailed me about last week (and again today). I wouldn’t put it past her.

“I was raised a Catholic and was never encouraged to ask questions, or understand the deeper meanings or mystical implications of the New Testament or the history of Jesus . . . So I rejected that, because who wants to go through life being told you do things because you do things?”

“I think they probably got it on, Jesus and Mary Madalene.”

Maria Gagliano

 

 

 

 

 

WHEN I WAS ten years old, my most dedicated pastime was praying the rosary. I’d go to my room at 8:00 PM, an hour earlier than my bedtime, to make sure I got through the entire circle of beads before getting tired. Just one set of ten Hail Marys wouldn’t do—a pulling paranoia insisted that I pray the whole loop every night. I had to concentrate on every word, consider its meaning, and I wouldn’t move on to the next bead until I’d felt each line in earnest. I forced myself to picture Mary, full of grace, blessed among all women with a blessed boy in her womb. Mary in her signature blue and white robes; God off to the side, just out of focus; Mary glowing, all-knowing, quiet and understanding, but with an iron hold that would not let me put down those beads. Even if it meant I wouldn’t go to sleep until ten o’clock. I didn’t give myself any other choice.

My parents, God-fearing Sicilians that they were, didn’t know what to do with me. Yes, Sunday mass was nonnegotiable, and they were proud parents of my brother, the altar boy, but that was the
extent of their devotion. Walking by my bedroom door to see me chanting Hail Marys instead of watching TV or reading
The Babysitters’ Club
confused them
.
It just wasn’t something they expected to see from their little girl. They seemed relieved the few times they caught me in the living room watching Madonna videos—I guess they considered this normal for kids my age—but the rest of my behavior baffled them. They didn’t dare disturb my bedroom prayers; they just nodded awkwardly and closed the door. Then I’d dart from bed, shoot across the room, and throw the door back open; I was terrified to be alone with my prayers.

My pious insanity emerged in fourth grade, when my religion teacher went on a stint of showing us videos of Virgin Mary apparitions. Our Lady of Fátima appearing to three shepherd children; Our Lady of Guadalupe appearing before Saint Juan Diego in the early morning; Our Lady of Lourdes showing herself to fourteen-year-old Saint Bernadette Soubirous.

Saint Bernadette threw me over the edge. I still remember the video: A French shepherd girl, going about her business in the fields, saw the Blessed Virgin near a rock. She was glowing, holding rosary beads, and talking. Bernadette was never the same after that. She was forced to convince everyone of her sighting, urge priests to build a chapel, endure
even more
sightings. It completely freaked me out. She was so ordinary, such a nobody, so much like me. What would stop the Holy Mother from interrupting
my
suburban New Jersey afternoon,
my
anonymous little-girl life, to assign me the burden of convincing the world that she really existed?

My nightly rosary ritual began shortly thereafter. I’d follow it with an installment of Bible reading before going to sleep. My goal was to eventually finish the whole thing, cover to cover, in hopes of figuring it all out. I’d read and read until I could understand God, feel close enough to look him in the eye without trembling. On some days, I was prepping for Mary’s arrival: Maybe if I knew enough about her and the heaven she came from, I wouldn’t mind seeing her. Perhaps I could
even ask her a few things I couldn’t find answers to in the Bible. Like whether she’d had sex with Joseph
after
Jesus was born, or if she was doomed to be a virgin forever. And how was she able to ascend to heaven, body and soul, without her body dying or eventually rotting? I’d ask if dead people could read my thoughts—if my grandmother could hear everything I was thinking. And if so, was she mad at me?

Other times I prayed, hoping that if I did it hard enough, God would leave me alone. I didn’t want to be among his holy chosen few; I wanted to be normal. Plain. Invisible. But the more I prayed, the more scared I became of possibly seeing Mary. So I took it further.
Maybe if I show God how dedicated I am in my actions
. . . I vowed to never have sex until I was married and, if I could help it, not even kiss a boy until I was at the altar. The Ten Commandments ruled my every action. Even white lies were forbidden, and I obsessed over not even
thinking
the Lord’s name in vain—let alone saying it. If I did, I had to say a Hail Mary and Our Father on the spot. I allowed myself to say the prayers silently, but I had to do an actual sign of the cross when I was done, so God could see me. This meant sneaking behind the bleachers at gym for a quick Father-Son-Holy-Spirit. I’d dart to the bathroom at lunch or duck my head in the coat closet during class if a quick prayer was necessary. It was okay for God to see me, but if I could help it, I’d spare myself the peer humiliation.

I did have a few false alarms. I swore I saw the Blessed Virgin’s silhouette in our hallway light fixture for a whole week. This was a real problem, since I insisted on sleeping with my door open and the hall light on. After four nights of not sleeping, I knocked on my parents’ door at 3:00 AM in tears.

“Mom, I can’t sleep,” I said when she appeared, barefooted and night-gowned.

“Why, what’s wrong?”

“Well, um, come here. Sit on my bed.” She actually followed my instructions, confused and hazy, but ready for my confession. “Now look up at the light. What do you see?” I asked.