Madonna and Me by Laura Barcella Jessica Valenti Read Free Book Online

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