TRACK 2
Like a Prayer
“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?”
—MADONNA
“I think they probably got it on, Jesus and Mary Madalene.”
—MADONNA
Madonna vs. the Virgin Mary
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.
“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.
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 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.
I first viewed this controversial video when I was entering my teens, before I understood much about my sexuality. I recall being drawn in by Madonna’s fearless expression of raw sensuality in tandem with images and icons that signified God’s grace. In contrast to what I learned from my church’s interpretation of dogma, Madonna informed my belief that sex and the spirit are married, and the tension that exists between the two is man-made. Madge taught me that sex and spiritual devotion are often about the sweetness of learning to surrender, not about shame.
Madonna’s evolution as a spiritual seeker has remained constant throughout a career fueled by reinvention. For almost three decades I’ve watched Madonna mature musically and spiritually. She has positioned herself as a spiritual icon that the public can buy, leveraging her celebrity to attract consumers to her music and to Kabbalah. But it wasn’t just me taking note of her spiritual openness. She profoundly influenced the culture at large—she was one of the first celebrities to encourage the MTV generation to try yoga, calling it not only a powerful spiritual and physical practice, but “a metaphor for life.” She was on to something. Not only did yoga become uber-trendy, but I blossomed under its teachings and practice as well. I realized that the quest for the alignment of mind, body, and spirit was imperative on my path to enlightenment. Before I discovered Sri Swami Satchidananda’s mantra, “one truth, many paths” during a yoga class in college, I only knew Margaret’s and Madonna’s no-apology approaches to spiritual curiosity. When I found Satchidananda’s mantra, I immediately experienced a connection with a sense of oneness that I instinctively understood but could not name.
Did this same sense of openness, I wondered, inspire Madonna’s next spiritual evolution, when she devoted herself to Kabbalah, once again inspiring countless others to seek the same? I remember meeting two young men in graduate school who joined the New York City Kabbalah Center with the not-particularly-spiritual mission of getting a glimpse of Madonna herself. But months after they finally spotted her, they continued going, energized and enthralled by the beauty of the faith.
I am in awe of Madonna’s transformative power, and her ability to expand our collective mindset about the limits of spirituality. I connect most with her message of self-love and of seeking a sense of authenticity through experimentation. Madonna makes the rules herself, rejecting the constraints of strict dogma to decide what nourishes her spiritually at any given moment. And if her videos and live shows are any indication, part of what has always nourished her most is dancing.
In her “Ray of Light” and “Frozen” videos, Madonna’s performance, to me, seemed like one of transcendent spirituality through movement. And I related to this almost as much as her self-expression through singing, because it was an equally rich outlet for me in high school and college, whether I was performing in school recitals, belly-dancing with my Lebanese and Egyptian friends, or simply boogying with friends at our monthly Prince-inspired dance party. I discovered the beautiful solace that dance provided me, a sacred clearing of my consciousness that I couldn’t find any other way. And I sensed that Madonna reached some similar place when she performed.
A pop-culture shaman, her intoxicating beats appealed to my primal energy, inviting me to leave my mind and simply enjoy my essential nature. She exposed her own truths in a way that inspired me to relate to her authentically, to the idea that we can evolve and reinvent ourselves, too.
But with evolution and wisdom comes personal insight, and while I love how Madonna seems to embody both Catholicism’s Mary and Hinduism’s Kali (she possesses both a calming and destructive energy) my relationship with Madonna today is complicated. As a faith-loving feminist, I respect her for challenging patriarchal dominance in both the music industry and the political church. But at the same time, I’m disturbed by her subscription to a brand of limitless capitalism that first emerged with her hit song “Material Girl.” Her celebrity and financial success sometimes thrives on the selling of the exoticism and fetishization of women of color—as demonstrated in her geisha-inspired Drowned World tour.
I loathed her when I read her racist comments about dating “disrespectful” black men in a 1991 issue of Spin magazine, years after my initial love affair with her began. Truthfully, I am still working on getting over this betrayal by a woman who has both celebrated and co-opted elements of African American culture.
Though I still define myself as a Christian (with openness to many truths), I stand by Madonna’s free speech and her individual interpretation and expression of her Catholic beliefs. I adored her when she kissed a beautiful black saint in the “Like a Prayer” video, rejecting historical racial and religious constructions. Still, I despised her hypocrisy when she turned against powerful feminist musician Sinead O’Connor, attacking her in the press for tearing up a picture of the pope.
Despite my mixed feelings, I condemn the attacks she continues to receive from Catholic organizations and family groups for simulating masturbation, using erotic iconography, kissing saint figures in her videos, and displaying glittery crosses during her tours. These critics attempt to crucify Madonna because she embodies an unruly brand of the “free will” they preach about but also fear.
Most of all, I respect the way she has transformed our culture and changed our conversation about the inextricable linkage of religion, sexuality, and the feminine divine. Madonna’s rebellious border-crossing both titillates and infuriates us. She is a saint and a sinner, a mirror of us all.
Our Lady of the Hot Pants
Kristin McGonigle
I HEREBY NOMINATE Madonna, by virtue of my tangential connection to the Roman Catholic Church, for sainthood. Yes, I realize saints are supposed to be dead first. Hear me out.
Sainthood is usually reserved for the purest of heart among us, the holiest of souls, those who sacrificed their lives in the name of God, or charity, or hanging out with animals, like Saint Francis. But there are saints for everything: Saint Blaise is the patron saint of throats. You can pray to Saint Anthony when you lose your keys, as he is in charge of lost things, but not lost causes, because Saint Jude is the go-to guy for those. Madonna already is, in my opinion, the patron saint of the dance floor. I say we start the process of making it official.
The first saints were among the many that died at the hands of the Romans, martyred for their beliefs. This was during the dawn of Christianity, and anyone who died defending his or her faith instantly became a saint. Those who followed were known for their piety as well as their beliefs, but the club was becoming more exclusive. By the seventeenth century, the Vatican started setting up guidelines and making up rules. Dying was no longer enough; there had to be posthumous miracles and spontaneous healing. Then they created official steps in the sainthood process: beatification and canonization. People who were alive had to vouch for you; it was like getting into the Harvard of heaven. By the twentieth century, modern civilization had cemented itself and it was pretty easy to differentiate the possible candidates for sainthood. Catholics started streamlining the process for their favorites. Pope John Paul II himself was filling out the paperwork on Mother Theresa before they got her body on the stretcher. When he died in 2005, he got the EZ Pass treatment as well.
So I’m taking it upon myself to get the ball rolling for Madonna, whose selection may seem a both controversial and nonsensical choice. Madonna has certainly been persecuted for her faith, both in the beginning of her career and now, as she seeks God in a very public way. But when examining her contribution to the twentieth and twenty-first century religious experience, it is clear that her infusion of spirituality into modern music and her concept of religious ecstasy is a reflection of the ancient traditions of Catholicism, in a society where the pious are hard to come by.
I became familiar with Madonna in 1983, due to the television program Solid Gold, the video for “Borderline,” and the fact that she was an actual person called Madonna—a name I had only known previously as belonging solely to the mother of Jesus. Even at a tender age, I thought, “Who names their kid ‘Madonna?’”
It was a big deal, and with such a big name, it’s no wonder she became the icon she is. It is common to name your daughter Mary in honor of the Virgin Mother, but to be christened “Madonna” is different. It’s like naming your son “Jesus,” but not the Hispanic version.
When “Like a Virgin” exploded onto the scene, Madonna had already established herself as a purveyor of street culture and dance hits. She was known for uniqueness and took pride in it. Her name itself was enough to get her in the door and to shock some listeners initially, but it was her incorporation of religious iconography and symbolism that made her a scandal star. Talking about feeling “like a virgin” while wearing crosses and rosaries as accessories, Madonna pissed off a lot of people.
Though most just assumed she was shirking authority and thumbing her nose at the Catholic Church, Madonna’s use of religious imagery was actually a natural extension of what we Catholics were raised to do. We all wore crosses around our necks; Madonna just wore a bigger one, and often without a shirt. And whether or not it was her intention, Madonna’s sexualized view of Catholicism, which debuted in “Like a Virgin” and crested with “Like a Prayer,” held a mirror to the latent eroticism that simmers below the surface of Roman Catholic culture. Madonna is not the first person to fantasize about making out with Jesus; she’s just the first one who did it on television.
As a parochial school student, plaid jumper and all, the dawn of Madonna blew my little mind. Because of—or despite—her name, I was drawn to her music, much like others of my age and gender. In 1984, Madonna released the album Like a Virgin and its titular single. That was the first time I realized that the word “virgin” could apply to people other than Jesus’s mom.
In the “Like A Virgin” video, it was not the dancing and writhing on Venice’s grand canals, or the “Boy Toy” belt buckle, or the unaccountable appearance of a lion (seriously, was that ever explained?) that was taboo or titillating. It was the appearance of Madonna in the virginal white gown. White dresses are a staple in the Catholic experience, used in the celebration of sacraments when rites are given at various stages of life to commemorate your commitment to the church. Their procurement and employment is taken very seriously. You receive your first sacrament as a baby, at baptism, when you are cleansed of original sin. Girls get their second fancy white dress (and second big party) when they celebrate the sacrament of Holy Communion. It’s a rite of passage for girls in the second grade, but no one really talks about the symbolism behind it. These seven-and eight-year-old girls are trotted out in white gowns, veils, and gloves, like tiny little brides in tiny little wedding dresses. Boys wear tuxedoes. It looks like they are marrying God. There is commonly a giant party afterwards where guests bring money and gifts.
Marriage is the last big sacrament, so fun that many people do it numerous times (unless you become a priest or a nun—though that is, in a sense, a marriage to Christ; the dresses aren’t nearly as nice.) For their weddings, Catholic women are expected to get the biggest, puffiest, whitest dresses they can find as a proclamation of their awesomely big, puffy purity.
In the video for “Like a Virgin,” Madonna was role-playing. Her too-short wedding dress (which kind of looked like a communion dress, which is kind of awesome) was a caricature—no longer a symbol of sanctity, but of sex. People were pissed off because she was singing about virginity in the past tense. And, let’s face it, because she’s a woman. Women aren’t supposed to talk about sex openly, and Catholic women aren’t supposed to talk about sex at all, unless it is in relation to baby-making magic. Women are defined by their relationship and sexual choices, but sex is only discussed in relation to the creation of a family.
Let’s take a minute here to think about how our conversations and perceptions about sex have changed significantly for the better within the last two decades. How the chasm between taboo and candid has gotten smaller. You know who helped make that happen? Madonna.
There is an undercurrent of sex that occupies everything, but it is rarely discussed. When it comes to the forefront explosively, like when Madonna shows up, there is a surprising amount of shock, but few sit back and ask, “Um, isn’t this what everyone was thinking about anyway?”
The uproar over another religious-themed Madonna song, “Like a Prayer,” was outdone by the cacophony generated by the accompanying video. But the song itself can be read as an homage to the Song of Solomon (or its street name, “that sexy part of the Bible.”) It is familiar to most as the go-to passage for couples in Catholic wedding ceremonies:
“My Beloved is like a gazelle or young stag. Behold, there he stands behind our wall, gazing through the windows, looking through the lattice.”
—SONG OF SOLOMON 2:9
It’s a beautiful image, and the entire “song” is an eight-chapter poem that purports to be a conversation between two lovers (presumably Solomon in the male role), but most scholars read it as an allegory. “My beloved” is God, or for Christians, Jesus. It’s a 117-line love letter to Jesus. It begins thusly:
“Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth! For your love is better than wine.”
—SONG OF SOLOMON 1:2
When read from this perspective, it’s not only romantic, but also kind of endearing. It’s not hard to imagine having deep and profound feelings of affection for one’s Messiah. It’s kind of like the way little kids want to kiss their parents; there is sweetness to this desired level of intimacy.
And yet, we don’t really talk about love that way. We talk about it in relationship to a man and a woman coming together in the sacrament of marriage. Much like everything fun and cool in life, namely sex and affection, Christianity has managed to put its own buzz-kill spin on it.
In the song “Like a Prayer,” Madonna offers this: “Life is a mystery /Everyone must stand alone/I hear you call my name/And it feels like home.” It is the first line of the song and repeated as the refrain therein, and Madonna’s voice begins bare and choral. It’s an incantation in the same vein as the Song of Solomon, a church song: “When you call my name/It’s like a little prayer/I’m down on my knees/I want to take you there.”
Granted, it’s a little more direct than “For your love is better than wine,” but it’s the Madonna version of guileless affection.
In the video for “Like a Prayer,” the narrative element supersedes the biblical allusion. The setting is a church, as well as a field where Madonna sings among burning crosses. A black man is unjustly charged of a crime, and his image is also similar to a statue of Jesus, which Madonna kisses, bringing it to life. One may argue that the images used to convey the song’s themes are a bit heavy-handed, thus losing the message in the medium, but the essence is conveyed. We all want a human connection to our God. It is right and sweet to want to show affection to the divine. It is the human reaction, and our form of grace.
As a fan of her music and of her womanhood, I have always felt a kinship with Madonna. We both came from a Catholic upbringing where sexuality was oppressed, where women came into adulthood with a confused, shameful sense of their relationship to their bodies and sex. Of course, my experience was different, because I had Madonna to show me the way.
She may not have been chased by lions in Rome (though there was that one in the Venice castle) and she may not have sacrificed her life to service, animals, or helping people find their keys, but as we evolve as a society, maybe our concept of sainthood should evolve as well. Maybe we need our saints to understand sin as well as the divine; to be a little Mary Magdalene and a little Mary, Mother of God; to know the grace in the sweat and sweetness of the human condition. And to dance like someone who knows God is watching and just doesn’t give a damn. Amen.
The Black Madonna
J. Victoria Sanders
IN A 1989 interview with Rolling Stone magazine, Madonna was asked if she ever felt African American. Her response: “Oh, yes, all the time . . . When I was a little girl, I wished I was black. All my girlfriends were black . . . If being black is synonymous with having soul, then yes, I feel that I am.”
Somehow I knew that Madonna had a thing for black folks even before I read that passage. Her soulful presence connected me to her more than any other white female star of the 1980s and 1990s. She was down without trying to be. She was a sister in white-girl skin. More than her music, her movies, the Sex book, or her love life (except for the Sean Penn part, which I overtly envied), she kept my attention because of her interactions with people of color in her videos and concerts. Aside from the Run DMC “Walk This Way” collaboration, Madonna was the first non-black artist of my generation to really place herself in the center of blackness and black art without mocking it or trying to supplant it. She even moved a little like a sister, maybe because of her Alvin Ailey training.
In the video for “Like a Prayer,” Madonna kisses the feet of a black saint who is imprisoned behind bars as she dances to a black choir with a circle of black children dressed in white. Even now, about twenty years later, watching the video moves me in a way that few other music videos have. Madonna had power and clout to spare, and she chose to subvert the idea that blackness was something white women should stay as far away from as possible.
Also, as far as I could tell from “Like a Prayer,” she was either a former Catholic or someone who didn’t like Catholics all that much. This was a no-no in my Catholic house, so naturally I wanted to find out more about her.
I eyed Madonna obsessively from around age eight until I turned eighteen—roughly from True Blue in 1986 until she told her Bedtime Stories in 1994. But I never quite understood what made her so compelling until I became a woman myself. Part of what endeared her to me was the way she wielded power in business, on stage, and in her own life as a badass bitch (in the best sense of the word). But it was also her connection to black women I admired. It made sense that Madonna signed one of my favorite artists of all time, the beautiful bisexual black woman Meshell Ndegeocello, to her Maverick record label. Another thing that made sense: The only other multiplatform female mogul in her league, business-wise, was Oprah. These two have a lot in common: a dramatic rise to fame, shrewd business tactics, and the ability to flip the world off just by basking in their own extreme success.
And they are both unlikely trendsetters. Oprah became an almost accidental arbiter of literary taste while Madonna made adopting African children chic for hot celebrity white women. She shook those brown-then-blonde curls and licked at the gap between her teeth like she was devouring life itself. Madonna offered little girls and young women swagger without all the testosterone-infused bravado.
This was big stuff to me, and it set the stage for this self-help geek to become mesmerized by a woman who helped herself to living vividly and unapologetically, no matter what the haters had to say. Her position in my world as a powerful pop culture figure was almost entirely separate from the quality of her music, which was never really my thing. I loved her because to me she signaled elements of who and what I could become if I dropped my doubt and self-consciousness.
That self-consciousness wasn’t necessarily about race—I knew I was never going to be white, and I didn’t want to be. I didn’t see Madonna and cry Pecola Breedlove-of-The Bluest Eye tears, though I did grow up Catholic with my reference for Madonna, the mother of God, as a white woman. I believed, for a time, that white women had more heavenly DNA than black women, the same way I believed Mary heard me when I prayed her name using borrowed rosaries. But in the communities of color where I grew up, the most prized beauties had brown skin. Being affirmed culturally seemed separate from whether a woman was angelic, pure, or godly.
Religious life, like most things I experienced as a little girl, was a segregated sphere. White families, a la the ones on Family Ties and Small Wonder, existed on one side, with the black families of The Cosby Show, A Different World, and Family Matters existing on another. At Catholic Mass, Mom and I were usually one of the only black families in attendance.
And in the early 1980s, my music world was also segregated. The physical world around me was largely black and Latino, and it competed with the media I consumed. And media was everything to me—being poor meant not having money to travel, see a Broadway show, or do anything that wasn’t free or requiring a “suggested donation.” Music, movies, and TV were free, or pretty damn close, so they encapsulated my whole idea of culture.
“White” music was rock. Phil Collins, George Michael, and Taylor Dayne made up the fare I was exposed to via my mother’s affinity for the soft-rock radio station on our alarm clock. “Black” music was what spoke to my heart. We claimed Michael Jackson, even when he started to look less like us and more like someone beyond racial classification; Whitney Houston, Prince, Tina Turner, and Marvin Gaye were other favorites.
As a rule, I was not a fan of white-girl music. Cyndi Lauper was okay, but I needed an image of someone like me—someone with brown skin. I got lucky that Whitney did some Cyndi-like punky stuff with her hair and her voice in the video for “I Wanna Dance With Somebody.” If I weren’t made to sing her song “The Greatest Love of All” repeatedly throughout elementary school, which made me sort of sick of her, I might have put Whitney on the virtual pedestal Madonna took up. As it was, Whitney was the sweet girl next door. Skinny, brown like me, with a wild wig and a big voice, and a breath capacity that I could only dream of. She was having fun—the daughter of a gospel singer with a “safe” image for singing ballads about love and broken hearts. Madonna was bigger, riskier, and it seemed like she had less to lose as she wore corsets while singing about sex and seduction.
In the absence of anyone else like her, Madonna became my standard for female sexuality, despite the fact that different rules apply to black women in the public sphere. Janet Jackson would come into her own later, but even her iconography was tamer. Her lewd expressions were more memorable for their suggestiveness (“That’s the Way Love Goes”) and for the unscripted Hottentot Venus-like performance (the Super Bowl flash) than for any purposeful expression of her sexuality. (See: “Let’s Wait Awhile,” “Velvet Rope,” and “Anytime, Anyplace.”) And Tina Turner was rugged and raw, tough and able, gritty and beautiful in her strength. But she was not saucy. She was not compelling. She was not scandalous.
I loved Madonna because she spoke to the part of me that didn’t quite fit any of the sexual, racial, or religious scripts from which I was supposed to take my cues. It might have been the soul of feminism I was gravitating toward, though I didn’t know any feminists in my Bronx hometown or in the shelters where we sometimes lived. There was a race- and class-neutral part of me that wanted to do whatever the fuck I wanted. I knew nice girls weren’t supposed to curse and that, at least in my house, they were supposed to go to Mass once a week and confess their sins. But the way Madonna sang, the way she had fun, and the fact that she kept on keeping on even as she was derided for it, has always inspired a different part of me.
I can’t say for sure how big this part of me was, really, but it was significant enough that at age ten I pulled a Punky Brewster. For no reason at all, I cut three pairs of holes in the thighs of my jeans and laced fluorescent green shoelaces through them. To her credit, my mother did not tamp down these horrid attempts at defining my own style. Thankfully, she also didn’t take many pictures.
With that one homemade attempt to change my physical image, I was trying to be free of definitions of womanhood that I wasn’t even fully aware of yet. Madonna circumvented those definitions. Despite the fact that she couldn’t sing that well and wasn’t that strong of a dancer, she seemed ultimately cool to me because she was disavowing herself of all the things I’d thought white women were supposed to do and be. She was outside all the pre-existing scripts—she hung out with hot Latino and black gay boys, mostly. She made “vogueing,” the popular practice in which predominantly African American and Latino gay men dressed in drag and froze in model-like poses, a worldwide sensation (even though it was made moderately famous by the documentary “Paris Is Burning” a year before her song came out). And she wore, well, hardly anything.
Her skimpy outfits (or lack of them) stood out to me as I slowly, painfully grew out of being a tomboy. At that age, my awareness of my body and other women’s bodies became more like an obsession. I wanted breasts, but I was flat-chested. I had no curves to speak of. I could sing, but I couldn’t dance. I was better at reading, writing, and school than just about anything else I’d attempted.
These days, the list of black women artists who have Madonna-esque elements is long: Lil’ Kim, Eve, and Nicki Minaj are just a few who embody the essence of her swagger. As a white artist who was unafraid to express her affinity for black culture in a time before it was cool, Madonna set the stage for a new generation of women—celebrities and regular folks alike—to express themselves outside of racial classifications. What was then taboo turned out to be just one more way that Madonna was a visionary, embracing the best parts of black culture before our generation caught up and followed her lead.
Mad Mensch
Wendy Shanker
AFTER HALF A century on this planet, Madonna has creative expression and power, intellectual curiosity, beautiful children, financial security (and then some), and a team of friends and colleagues who she can love and trust. Only one thing is missing.
Madonna needs a mensch. A good man, a stand-up guy with means and influence. “Mensch” is a Yiddish word meaning “a person of integrity and honor.” Yiddish lexicologist Leo Rosten says a mensch is “someone to admire and emulate, someone of noble character. The key to being a real mensch is nothing less than a sense of what is right, responsible, decorous.”
I’m thinking that since Madonna got such a life-affirming boost from Kabbalah, maybe she would be equally inspired by a Jewish connection in her love life.
She may have gotten fleeting pleasure from guys like A-Rod (emphasis on the rod) and 22-year old Brazilian DJ Jesus Luz, but they can’t match her cerebral and artistic maturity. I know she’s drawn to Latino men. I know she is attracted to fiery figures. I know she’s got a libido that made her ex-boyfriend Warren Beatty look like a prude. But clearly this kind of Renaissance woman requires more than orgasms and mix tapes to fulfill her romantic needs.
Sean Penn may have been a soul mate, but he was not a mensch. Mensches don’t ball up their Versace suits and leave them on the floor. Mensches don’t tie their wives to chairs (without asking nicely first).
Warren Beatty may have been a Lothario, but he was not a mensch. Mensches don’t sleep with more than one woman at the same time. Mensches don’t worry about their younger girlfriends stealing their spotlight.
Carlos Leon may have been a good sperminator, but he was not a mensch. You’d never confuse a mensch with a personal trainer.
Guy Ritchie may have been a . . . well, as far as I can tell, he was pretty much just an asshole. Or an arsehole, if you prefer.
In my head, I picture Madonna with a guy her age or older. He’s been a success in life in both appearances (money, taste, looks, philanthropy) and on more subtle levels (intelligence, influence, self-confidence). He’s a man who has already had a wife and children and is not seeking more. A man who is not, I repeat, not in the entertainment business. He may find showbiz amusing, but his ego is not affected by media whims. His investment in the relationship isn’t about being attached to “Madonna,” the icon, but connecting to Madonna, the woman. The activist. The artist. The mother.
And he definitely needs to be a Jew.
Some of Madonna’s most successful relationships in life have been with Jewish men: Seymour Stein, who signed her to Warner Bros. Freddy DeMann, her pre-Maverick manager. Liz Rosenberg, her publicist and defender for decades (fine, she’s not a man, but she’s as tough as one). Guy Oseary, her longtime partner in crime. And Michael Berg, the rabbi who taught her Kabbalah.
I’m not talking about a neurotic Jew, like Woody Allen or Larry David, or a power-hungry Napoleon type, like Michael Bloomberg or Ron Perelman. I’m picturing a Thomas Friedman, a Rahm Emmanuel, a Guggenheim, an Annenberg—a thoughtful, strong-willed Jewish man who is more impressed by her brain than her resume or connections. A man who can offer her stability, security, and a nice pair of diamond studs. A man who makes reservations, vacations in Miami Beach, and respects his mother, God rest her soul. A father figure who is not her father.
I’m not saying that Madonna (or any woman) is incomplete without a man. Far from it. But since she’s always indicated that she wants a relationship, why not have one with a mensch? Granted, they’re in short supply. I’m in the mensch market myself, and I’m not exactly striking gold. I can tell you that when a Jewish girl gets serious about finding a real relationship and not just a fling, a b’sheart (meant-to-be) instead of a one-night stand, there’s only one place to go. So I hope she won’t mind, but I signed Madonna up on J-Date.
Believe me, Madonna wasn’t the first shiksa trolling the site. Plenty of non-Jewish women who want to strike gold with a NJB (Nice Jewish Boy) lurk around on there. No one knew it was Madonna who signed on, anyway. If they recognized her stats, they probably weren’t straight. I didn’t put pictures up, because everyone would identify Madonna. My point wasn’t to lure men in—even if someone tried to initiate contact based on her profile, I didn’t respond. I wasn’t trying to impersonate her, just profile her. Plus, it was probably illegal.
First I had to choose a sign-on name. Since she used it in Kabbalah, I went with “EstherC.” The “C” is for Ciccone, but I also thought it was a good play on Ester-C, the vitamin, because Madonna is such a health nut. Then I began to fill in the rest . . .
Name
EstherC
Your Birthdate
AUGUST 16, 1958
What is your current relationship status?
DIVORCED
Do you have children?
3 OR MORE (Lourdes, Rocco, David & Mercy)
Your Zodiac sign
LEO (Very important in finding the right partner. We want a Leo-appreciative man, not a conflicting sign.)
Describe yourself and your personality. What are you passionate about? Are you a political junkie, a Ph.D. in archaeology, a tennis fanatic? We all have something that makes us unique; this is your chance to tell about yourself and the things that get you excited. Don’t be shy—dare to bare it all!
I thought I’d let Madonna handle that one herself. So I borrowed a few lines from her essay about her Kabbalah-inspired awakening from Israel’s leading paper,
Yediot Ahronot: “I had traveled the world many times over, performed in soccer stadiums, appeared in films, dined with state leaders, collaborated with great artists and achieved what most people would view as a high level of success but I still felt something was missing in my life. Suddenly Life no longer seemed like a series of Random events. I started to see patterns in life. I woke up. I began to be conscious of my words and my actions and to really see the results of them . . . I also began to see that being Rich and Famous wasn’t going to bring me lasting fulfillment and that it was not the end of the journey; that it was the beginning of the journey.”
Well said, Madonna. I moved on to physical information: Height? Five-foot-four (but debatable). Weight? Let’s say 102. Body style: Athletic?
Muscular? Ripped? Yes, but I didn’t want to scare people. I went with FIRM & TONED. Hair BLONDE, eyes BLUE.
I grew up in . . .
MICHIGAN
Languages you speak?
I wasn’t sure about that one. I checked off ENGLISH, ITALIAN, and OTHER in honor of Chichewa, the local dialect in Malawi.
Religious background?
Catholic was clearly not an option on J-Date. So I checked off CULTURALLY JEWISH BUT NOT PRACTICING.
Education level?
SOME COLLEGE (She never graduated from my alma mater, the University of Michigan. Hey, that might be a good gift for the girl who’s got everything—a college degree!).
Describe what you do:
World dominator? Most famous woman on the planet? How about ENTERTAINER.
Off to the next section, “Personality and Interests.” I just clicked on boxes for this part.
My personality is best described as . . .
Adventurous/Wild/Spontaneous, Argumentative, Artistic, Compulsive, Flamboyant, Flirtatious/Playful, High Energy, High Maintenance, Humorous/Witty, Intellectual, Sensitive/Nurturing/Loving, Outgoing, Practical, Romantic, Self-Confident, Serious/Responsible, Sophisticated/ Worldly, Spiritual, Stubborn, Talkative, Unconventional/Free-Spirited.
What didn’t make the list? Conservative. Easy-going. Procrastinator.
In my free time, I enjoy . . .
Antiquing, Collecting, Dining Out, Entertaining, Hanging Out with Friends, Home Improvement/Decorating, Intimate Conversations, Investing, Listening to/Playing Music, Partying, People Watching, Photography, Reading/Writing, Shopping, Surfing the Web/Chatting Online, Traveling/Weekend Trips/Adventure Travel, Movies/TV.
What didn’t Madonna enjoy? I left out Board Games, Card Games, Video Games. The woman does not seem to enjoy activities where you have to sit down.
In my free time, I like to go to . . .
Antique Stores/Flea Markets/Garage Sales, Art Galleries, Bars/ Nightclubs, Bookstores, Charity Events, Concerts, Dances (Line, Ballroom, Tango), Live Theater, Movies, Museums, Opera, Political Events, Raves/Underground Parties, Restaurants, Symphony, Volunteer Events.
Where didn’t Madonna like to go, in my estimation? I skipped Comedy Clubs, Shopping Malls, Sporting Events (her bullfighting era is over).
My favorite physical activities:
Aerobics, Biking, Working Out/Weightlifting, Dancing, Hiking/Walking, Horseback Riding, Martial Arts, Yoga/Meditation.
I left out cricket, hunting, and rugby. Hey, Guy . . . snap!
My favorite food(s):
Does she actually eat food? This is a stumper. I stuck with VEGETARIAN/ ORGANIC and VEGAN. And KOSHER, naturally.
My favorite music:
All of ’em. I checked off every kind they offered.
Now this is where I really had to stop and think: the “Relationship” section. Again, I didn’t want to put words in her mouth, so I let Madonna speak for herself. I went back through those revealing 1991 Carrie Fisher interviews from Rolling Stone, along with a few other choice interview snippets, to compile the answers for this section.
My ideal relationship:
“I’m dying to meet someone who knows more than me. I keep meeting guys who know less. I suppose looks are important, but I’ve certainly found myself attracted to men who aren’t conventionally attractive. Painters are good, too. There are two things that I can’t do and wish I could—write and paint. Smart, confident, smells good, sense of humor, likes to write letters, likes antique jewelry.”
My past relationships:
“I’m not with any of the people I’m not with for a much larger reason: We just weren’t meant to be. If I had changed and given in, or what I conceived to be giving in, to certain concessions that people had asked of me, maybe the relationships would have been successful on the one hand, but then I would have had to give up other things in my career. And then I would have been miserable.”
I am looking for:
“A male image that I’m really moved by is somewhere between an Oscar Wilde type of a male: the fop, the long hair, the suits, too witty for his own good, incredibly smart, scathingly funny—all that. But then my other ideal is more like the Buddhist monk—the shaved head, actually someone who sublimates their sexuality. I am attracted to a thug. I like that quality, but I like the other side of it, too. Because all guys who go around behaving in macho ways are really scared little girls. So you have to look beneath the surface. There’s a difference between my ideal man and a man that I’m sexually attracted to, believe me. Therein lies the rub.”
My perfect first date:
“Dinner is really good. Where they have good margaritas.”
Done. Madonna’s J-Date profile was now complete. It was kind of creepy how much I knew about Madonna, but at the same time, it was totally fun to fill out. I finally understood why J-Date claims that 22 percent of their subscriptions are paid for by parents who want to marry off their kids. And why my married friends are always so anxious to help me with my dating search. It’s wish fulfillment for them. Though I still don’t understand why people push so hard for marriage when so many fall apart. Even Madonna told Carrie Fisher, post-Sean Penn, that she wouldn’t get married again. Yet she did. I guess love changes everything. Sigh.
Now, with that information set up in “EstherC’s” profile, I did a search to see who might be a good match for her. Ooh, 360 hits! One for every day of the year (not including Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and let’s say . . . Tu B’Shevat). One of the first selections: BIALYBOY247. A handsome sonovabitch, and he was wearing a tux, holding a violin. Sixty-three years old. Divorced, six-foot-two. He described himself this way:
“Played music all over the world (orchestral, festivals, Broadway, etc.), and would enjoy it even more with someone who adds fuel to the fire of the usual chemistry.”
A professional, worldly musician! That would be a nice fit for Madonna. He’s a Scorpio. Could be kind of devious, but they’re also pretty sexy. Plus, no kids of his own, so he could treasure Madonna’s children without any distraction! I added him to her J-Date “Hot List.”
Next in the search results: BONAPPETIT1. A native Frenchman! A brilliant cook! But he was only five-foot-five! Forget it. How about TAKEACHANCE? He was sixty-seven and divorced. His picture looked kind of dated, but the guy could write with tongue firmly in cheek:
“Seeking a rich, sexy dame with a mansion in Miami, an atelier in Paris, and a winter home in Monaco where we can snuggle in front of a roaring fire, gazing into each other’s eyes. Did I mention you should have blue eyes, blonde hair, and a perfect body? And it’s essential you be high maintenance. Very high maintenance.”
A rich, sexy, high-maintenance, blue-eyed blonde? This had Madge’s name all over it! TAKEACHANCE had a PhD and had studied psychology, philosophy, and comparative religion. Here’s what he said about past relationships:
“What I want in a “Relationship Kit”: a sense of humor, to keep things in perspective; a shovel, to leave no stone unturned when trying to make a relationship work; and a towel to throw in when it really ain’t working.”
TAKEACHANCE was funny! Liked him! Put him on the Hot List!
Okay, back to the Search Results. MICHAELMAN. Wait—I knew that guy! He’d hit on a million of my friends. One girl who went home with him said he had a kinky side—based on Erotica, that’s not necessarily a bad thing for Madonna. His fetishes went unmentioned in his well-written (and grammatically correct, always a turn-on) profile. But he was looking for someone way younger than Madonna. Good luck with that, buddy. Same went for SPANKY. Whether his user name was a naughty thing or a goofy thing, I wasn’t feeling it.
YOUNGATHEART lived in Queens. Nope.
HAPPYHAROLD used a headshot. Nope.
MUSIKLOVE was watching TV in his photo. Nope.
321SHELDON had a photo so old it was probably taken with a Kodak Disc camera. Nope.
MATZO MAN . . . He was handsome, had kind of a Frank Langella look, but . . . an actor. Forget it.
DEEPWATERU. That guy was hot. Would never have guessed he was over fifty! Dirty blond hair, blue eyes, six-foot-four, looked like a surfer. Okay, so he meant “love at first sight” but spelled it “love at first site.” We all make mistakes when it comes to homonyms. He’d never been married, but said he had two kids—that’s interesting. A single dad?
My babies are a pug (Luke) and a French bulldog (Leia). They are the best little people in the world.
Star Wars dogs as stand-ins for actual human children? Deal breaker. We’re out.
Check this one out! MILESAWAY is a black dude! I knew there were non-Jewish women crawling around the site, but I’d never seen a black guy on J-Date . . . oh, he was a biracial Jew. Like Lenny Kravitz! He had kind of a jazzy, light-radio way of writing, and he used the phrase “my woman” with too much frequency. But on the plus side:
My woman is intelligent, insightful, worldly, sexy, playful, mindful, and happy. She’s warm, romantic, emotionally stable, and spiritually evolved. Soft and talented lips are a plus.
Madonna always said she was a great kisser! Remember—kissing, thumbs up; hummers, thumbs down?
What about HOLYHUNK212! Total man meat, he looked like that Italian guy from the first Sex and the City movie . . . wait, the picture wasn’t him. HOLYHUNK212 was actually a husky nerd, luring Jewesses in with a fake photo. But I found that hilarious. He wrote:
“I AM A FUN LOVING DIVORCED MAN WHO WAS MARRIED FOR TWENTY SIX YEARS AND HAVE HAD A CRAZY TIME MEETING MANY WOMEN BUT AM NOW READY TO SETTLE DOWN AND FIND THE RIGHT WOMEN WHO WILL MAKE ME FEEL WHOLE AND SOMEONE I CAN SETTLE DOWN WITH AND ENJOY THE INTAMACY I HAD WITH MY FIRST WIFE.”
Okay, he had a caps issue and a run-on sentence problem, plus he lived in Jersey, but at least HOLYHUNK212 spoke from the heart. Too bad he was looking for a thirty-year old. Oy! Lots of guys available, but where were the sleek and sophisticated professionals? Did they not go on J-Date? Did they have their own boutique site, CEO-Date? Hey, was this one? Nah, he spelled ENTERPRENER wrong, so forget it.
All this made me wonder why hunting down men on J-Date was so much fun when I was doing it for Madonna, but so agonizing when I did it for myself. I guess it’s that strange phenomenon where you can look so ugly to yourself in a picture, but in someone else’s eyes, you’re beautiful. Or how you can fix other people’s problems so easily when your own seem impossible to solve. When it comes to finding true love, everyone can tell you how it’s supposed to be done, but you don’t really know until you get your heart broken yourself.
But . . . one final scan . . . Look! NYCMENSCH! An actual mensch by name! He wrote:
“I was the youngest son of nine in a loving, orthodox Moroccan family. I have a master’s of law in economics, I consider myself a businessman with a lawyer’s edge. Several years ago a tragedy struck my life, when I lost the three most important women a man could ever love in a one-year period: my wife, my mother, and most importantly, my daughter. Nonetheless, I am a very happy person. I have tried to go on with my life, by giving back to the Jewish community and by living life as fully as possible.”
Heartbreaking, genuine, and so sweet. We’ve found our man, Madonna: NYCMENSCH. Let me know if you want your password.