It was the voice that brought me my first brush with sublime pop joy and exuberance, and it was a voice that guided me through my childhood, adolescence, and adult years – covering three decades of rich and varied life, modulating and adjusting to every twist and turn in the op culture world, as well as the intimate corkscrews of my own personal life.
I bopped around my brother’s room to ‘Dress You Up‘ and found my own version of 80’s glory in my childhood bedroom as the ‘You Can Dance’ cassette unfurled from side A to side B and back in again. She taught me how to express myself, how to strike a pose, how to fuck, how to keep a secret, how to fall apart, how to get back home, how to say goodbye, how to come together, how to drive a Mini Cooper, how to confess, how to celebrate, how to turn it up, how to take the road less traveled, and how to make a dream come true.
So when she so disastrously posted a supportive Instagram pic of some Trump-advocated loon of a doctor who was making dangerous claims abut COVID, it hit some of her fans, myself included, in an almost-fatal way. The question was how to forgive someone who didn’t want, need, or request forgiveness in any form. She deleted it, remained mum about it, and moved on. Maybe she knew how wrong she was. Maybe she was ashamed and embarrassed by such a sad and sorry misstep. Maybe she just didn’t give a fuck. And so I took some time away from Madonna, for the first time ever.
I never thought the break would be as long or as serious as it was, but I’m in a different place in my life now. In my twenties, when my passions burned hard and bright and unforgivably hot, I’d have taken it a lot harder. Now it passed like news of the brutal belly-flop of her ‘Living For Love’ single. Stung a bit, left a residual ache, and then went away, without so much as a bruise.
More problematic was how to reconcile my disappointment with the questionable judgment of an idol. To that end, I focused on the joy Madonna always brought me. I could enter through that portal with the ‘Vogue’ MTV Awards performance from 1990, in which she flounced about in ‘Dangerous Liaisons’ garb a la Marie Antoinette. That was the easy access route, but it left me feeling hollow, and slightly dirty. Normally that’s a good thing when Madonna is involved, but this wasn’t a good kind of dirty. This felt emotionally icky, and so I had to find another way back.
At her best moments, and in her best music, Madonna has admitted her faults and failings, owning up to mistakes, to narcissism, to ego, to failing prey to the weakness and temptations we all yield to at some point. Yet she never stopped searching, never stopped seeking ways to improve, to become something better than she was today…
I’m so stupid…
I fought to be so strong, I guess you knew I was afraid you’d go away too…
Now I find I’ve changed my mind…
I am also most decidedly not a believer in a take-no-prisoners, burn-it-all-to-the-ground kind of cancellation that would erase almost forty wonderful years of music and inspiration. Madonna has done far more good in the world than I can ever hope to accomplish. Her work for AIDS when it first came on the scene and ravaged so many of her friends, her intrinsic and integral support of the gay community, her championing of feminism using her own life as the prime example, and her own quirky way of fighting against ageism have all been inspiring facets of her life journey. In so many ways she fought for the underdogs and the very populations who needed it when the world turned against them. You can’t undo all of that with a misguided Instagram post.
I Fucked Up, I made a mistake, nobody does it better than myself.
If Madonna has taught me anything over the years it’s that we all should have the chance and opportunity to reinvent ourselves, to become better versions of ourselves when we learn things and grow. Has my love affair with Madonna completely shriveled up and died? Not a chance. But I can’t and won’t pretend the once pristine shine and sparkle hasn’t dulled, that fissures and cracks haven’t appeared in the once impenetrable fortress of my love for her.
A true hero is never perfect all the time. A true hero has flaws to reveal that they are human. It makes them relatable. It makes them real. It gives their accomplishments a sheen of possibility, and us the idea of entertaining a dream. And so I’m finding my way back to appreciating my hero’s grace and magic, mistakes and all. In the ache of honesty that accompanied a photo of some recent surgery. In the thrill of a pink hair renovation. In the hint of some musical history in the making. In a world bereft of pop idols, I still need Madonna, and I haven’t given up just yet.
