Madonna and Me (6 page)

“Huh? Nothing. Is the light bulb out? Do you need more light?”

“You don’t see Mary?” I was terrified even uttering the word.

“
Mary
? Mary who?”

“Like, the Virgin Mary. You know how she comes to people sometimes, like in a vision? Is that her?”

“Oh, God! I’m going to call your teacher if she doesn’t stop showing you those videos. You’re not even sleeping! No, honey, that’s not Mary. She doesn’t come to people anymore. That was hundreds of years ago. You don’t have to worry. Please, just go to sleep. You were dreaming.”

I feigned relief and scuttled under the covers. Her “reassuring” words freaked me out even more. Didn’t she see? It’d been
hundreds of years
! The Holy Mother was just waiting to strike. In the end, the fact that my vision lacked a halo and rosary beads and didn’t talk convinced me that the light fixture did not host our Blessed Virgin, but the incident refueled my devotion. That night, I said two rounds of Hail Marys—once for myself and once for my mom. She’d said God’s name in vain while talking falsely about Mary.
Lord, help her!

Sleep did not come easily that year. My grades slipped to Bs and Cs because I spent most of my time praying in the bathroom or hiding in the coat closet. When I wasn’t praying, I was analyzing my actions to determine if I
should
be praying. I got an A in religion, but my parents still grounded me for the declining grades in my other classes. No TV in my room, and my homework had to be done right after school.

Without a TV in my room, I had nothing to do besides pray and read. It got exhausting. So I started venturing to the living room TV to get out of my head. My two brothers seized the remote when they got sick of the sitcoms I watched, which was often. One night after dinner, my brother Sal snapped after a particularly corny
Full House
moment. He snatched the remote and switched it to MTV.

“It’s staying here. Permanently,” he said. “There’s such crap on tonight,” he muttered. “Call me if Pearl Jam comes on.”

As Sal left the room, I turned to see a burning cross on the screen.
What is this? Is this even allowed on TV
? I wondered.
Is this Pay-Per-View?
I looked around for someone to ask. But my dad had gone to bed, and my mom and brothers were down in the basement. I was alone. And I couldn’t stop watching.

A woman was lying on the ground; a second later she began singing and I realized I was watching the video for Madonna’s “Like a Prayer.” Though the song had been on the radio for years by that point in 1992, I had never before seen the video. Madonna was in a church now, her dress’s spaghetti strap falling off her shoulder, her bra straps in full view, and her cleavage even more so. I was pretty sure God wouldn’t have approved.
Wow,
I thought.
How did she get away with that
? Then it got worse. The painted statue was crying; then he came to life and kissed Madonna. In the church! I could safely guess that Madonna and the statue weren’t married; they had no excuse for kissing in church. I knew I was in serious trouble for watching this.
Mary’s probably sitting on my bed waiting for me
, I thought.
I’m really going to pay for this.
But I couldn’t change the channel.

As I watched, I became crippled with worry over what was waiting for me in my room. It felt like I’d undone a year’s worth of getting on God’s good side. He was going to send Mary—not because I was a chosen one, but to punish me because he knew it was everything I didn’t want. I was going to have to pay for Madonna’s filthy mess.

My fears only escalated as the video unfolded. I felt my throat swell when Madonna dropped a knife to reveal a stigmata in her palms. I didn’t understand whether I should be happy that she was exposing our MTV Generation to Jesus or upset that she was making a show of him. Was she celebrating or mocking? All confusion aside, I couldn’t stop staring at her toned, pale body as she sang in that nothing dress on a field of burning crosses. She was beautiful, sexual, and unapologetic about whatever chaos she was creating. It almost hurt to watch someone with such confidence, knowing I’d never figure out where to find it or what to do with it if I did. Even if the
wrath of God were to strike down on her, she didn’t seem to care. I hated her for that.

When the video ended, I decided to face my punishment and get it over with. I went upstairs, fully expecting to see Mary pissed off and ready to uproot my anonymous little life. But no one was there. I sat on the bed.
They’re just deciding their plan of attack,
I thought. I waited patiently, accepting my fate, prepared for their decision. But still nothing. I watched my Jesus and Mary pictures on the walls, expecting their eyes to move like paintings in an old haunted castle. Nothing. I looked in the mirror, wondering if she was hiding deep beneath that dimension. Nothing. I even stared straight into the hallway light, begging Mary to show up.
Let’s just be done with it
, I thought.
Let’s end this war. I’m ready
. Only I wasn’t. My courage deflated around two in the morning, when I said my prayers more quickly than usual and hurried to bed. I didn’t want to call more attention to myself with thoughtful prayers.

After that night, I spent more time in the living room. My bedroom started feeling like a punishment chamber, ready to combust at any moment. And I came to realize that “Like a Prayer” was a popular video. MTV played it constantly—even more than Pearl Jam, much to my brother’s dismay.

I decided to conduct a test. Each time it played and no one was around to change the channel, I’d watch it. I knew I was doing something bad. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly which commandment I was breaking, but I felt guilty by association. Like I was approving of—even supporting—Madonna’s blasphemy. But I was also angry. Why did
she
get to do what she wanted without consequence? Burn crosses as she pleased, kiss saints, play in churches like they were her bedroom, show her bra and boobs in front of God and not think twice about it? I was sure she didn’t stay up at night wondering what the holy family thought of it, worrying whether they’d strike down and ruin her stupid boring life. Then I wondered if she knew something I didn’t. Perhaps Madonna had actually talked to God and
gotten his okay. Whatever the case, I watched it every time just to see what happened. Nothing ever did.

“Like a Prayer” started to feel like my secret weapon. Each time I watched it without consequence, I worried about apparitions a little less. It was thrilling to play with such fire, especially when one could argue that I wasn’t the one doing the actual sinning. I bopped a little more each time I watched her dance with the church choir. I sang and clapped in sync with Madonna, pretending everything was going to be all right. She
was
all right, after all. She’d made this video years prior and she was still alive, making music and seeming not at all as though she’d suffered a Godly punishment. If she didn’t get zapped for making the video, I’d probably be forgiven for merely watching it. My courage was feeble, though. I still said my prayers and read the requisite Bible passages each night. But as my confidence grew, I got through those beads a little more quickly. I could feel my soul loosening up, like maybe I actually had a choice in all this.

Then I took my tests further. On a gray Monday morning, after a rainy weekend of MTV stalking and four “Like a Prayer” sightings, I dared myself to use God’s name in vain. Out loud. In front of people. No one knew of my pious insanity, but still, saying it among witnesses would prove it really happened. I’d do it in casual conversation during recess—nothing malicious. No one would notice. I’d just slip it in between jumping rope with the girls. I’d do it and force myself to just keep going. No hiding behind a tree to confess my sin, no coatroom meltdown when we got inside. I’d just act like a normal, sane kid. It was a lot to ask of myself.

It all went as planned. It was 12:17 PM on a Monday afternoon in April. Lenore kept the Double Dutch going for a full forty-five seconds, and when she hit a complete minute, I struck.

“Oh my God, Lenore, you did it! Awesome!”

I thought I’d immediately tense up and want to hide, but I didn’t. In fact, it felt pretty good. Something about it was strangely liberating. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so light; so simply okay. I was
so energized by the rush of relief that I called dibs on the next turn to jump rope. Until then, I’d only ever watched on the sidelines.

All I could think of for the rest of the day was how much I wanted to hug Madonna, maybe even tell her everything I’d been putting myself through. I’d never told anyone before; it was just me and my self-inflicted rules bullying my every move. Something told me Madonna would understand. She’d be like a cool big sister who wouldn’t flinch at my ridiculous stories. I’d let it out and she’d laugh. And I’d know she wasn’t laughing at me.

I still prayed, but worked my way around the beads a bit more quickly as each night passed. Then I decided the whole round of fifty Hail Marys wasn’t necessary. A batch of ten would do. That soon turned to one Hail Mary and one Our Father. God seemed to understand. I stopped worrying about Mary sightings. Not because I didn’t think it was possible, but because I was sure that if she wanted to visit, she would. No amount of praying or sinning would stop that. The few prayers I had left were more of a nod to God; a talisman of everything we’d been through. And a gentle reminder that I hadn’t forgotten what he was capable of. I just needed him to let me be.

Jamia Wilson

 

 

 

 

 

WHEN I WAS nine, I read Judy Blume’s
Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret
, a stunning bildungsroman about a sixth-grade girl’s contemplations on God, her changing body, and her sexuality. I read the book while splashing in the bathtub, listening to Madonna and Salt-N-Pepa grooves, and painting my nails with pink peel-off nail polish. My copy of the book became dog-eared and worn from my many late-night readings with a flashlight. It resonated with me because I liked talking to God, too. I prayed every night before bed, then later asked forgiveness when I stayed up past bedtime (which I did often, reading my Blume book), and when I woke, I gave thanks for the new day. The end of the book struck me most. Instead of participating in a singular religious tradition, she finds comfort in the personal relationship she has developed with God, beyond doctrine, dogma, temples, or churches. Even though I was raised a Baptist with progressive sensibilities, I didn’t know there were other people whose personal relationships with God went beyond praying in a temple, mosque, or a church. Everyone
around me defined themselves as strictly Christian, Muslim, or Jewish. At that point in my life, I didn’t completely comprehend that even though I was passionate about my religion, it was possible for me to define spirituality on my own terms.

Around this time, I was also a blossoming Madonna fan. Even though I didn’t have a clear understanding of the meaning of the religious imagery in her videos, her bold exploration of religious themes impacted my perception of spirituality later on. I was completely fascinated with her. I would play
Like a Virgin
on my canary yellow Fisher-Price record player, dancing to “Material Girl,” and singing along to lyrics that I didn’t understand. I only knew that this mesmerizing creature I’d seen on MTV had a sublime presence—she commanded my attention and seduced me into moving my body until it felt freedom. As a child, I wasn’t aware of what a “virgin” was—beyond what we called Mary when we sang “Silent Night” in Sunday school and caroling at Christmas—but I understood that Madonna’s force was both worldly and divine.

Over the years, I became increasingly enamored with Madonna’s enduring spirit and her rabble-rousing. She revered and re-appropriated religious imagery in “Like a Virgin,” dancing suggestively while donning a crucifix and sexy lace. I was entranced by her use of song to express her own spiritual experience, revealing an alternative approach to restrictive and patriarchal traditions. For Madonna, religion was fun—it was about celebration rather than condemnation.

And she’s made it fun for almost thirty years, rebelling against Catholic guilt and rejecting the tired association of sex with shame. She reveled in her own definition of feminine sexuality, exhibiting vulnerability and submission to a saintly figure in
“
Like a Prayer,” and wielding a dominatrix’s whip as she kicked off her Confessions Tour in 2006. As a teenager, I appreciated these contradictions. I viewed Madonna as a sort of pop culture Mary Magdalene, unafraid
to express herself in the face of controversy or even condemnation from the highest Catholic judge himself: the pope.

Associating spiritual communion with sacred sexuality, in “Like a Prayer” Madonna equated holy redemption with the freedom of sexual ecstasy. She celebrated both God and sexuality, blurring the lines between the two, rejoicing in the power of both her body
and
her soul.