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

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.

Are You There God? It’s Me, Madonna
    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