What in the Sam Hill is Twerking?

Media and pop culture worlds are all a-buzz about Miley Cyrus's VMA performance.  You would think nothing else is going on in our world beyond the Miley gyrations.

Not Syria.
Not an insane fire in Yosemite, a national treasure.
Not the 50th Anniversary of the March on Washington
Not the 50th Anniversary of one of the greatest moments in our country's history: Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s, "I Have a Dream" speech.

Nope.  Instead it's all about the twerk. And for the record, I had to look up what "twerk" meant.

As I am way too old to be interested in the VMA's and way too busy watching Walter White grow more diabolical with every scene I missed it.  Curious as to what all the oh my gosh scuttlebutt was about, I watched the video on YouTube.  My initial reaction was, gross.  Just, gross.  I then felt the strong need for a silkwood shower, but I digress. When I really thought about it, all I felt was sad. 

Sad for the young woman compelled to chase negative, and objectifying validation from strangers and the faceless ethers otherwise known as the internet and social media.  Validation not won by steadfast personal growth efforts in education, athletics or good old-fashioned work, which are the things most other 20-somethings are chasing.  Nope.  Instead, it's low-rent validation seeded in not hearing or receiving enough of the right kind of validation when it really, really mattered from the people who really, really matter.

Sad to see a beautiful young girl look so oddly thrilled with herself as she stripped, twerked and simulated singular naughty with a foam finger.  (You know the kind...the normally reserved for kooky sports fans wearing giant ears of corn or wedges of cheese on their heads?)  A few times watching the video, I actually looked away.  It was all too personal and too much to watch and process.  I didn't for one second recognize she was actually also kind of singing.  It was an awards show for music videos after all.   You know the thing, music.  Where notes, lyrics, voices and instruments are put together in the name of expression with the goal of inspiring or invoking emotion. Yeah, none of that here.

Sad for this girl - someone's daughter, sister, fiance, friend or (please Jesus no) role model.  Embarrassed for her as she rubbed her nearly naked self on a, fully-clothed down-to-sunglasses married man who was, you guessed it, actually singing.

Sad for her parents and the regret and wonder I assume hope they feel after seeing their baby girl disrepect herself so proudly.  The same baby girl who probably once actually really loved stuffed animals and maybe even hosted tea parties for her dollies.  That idea is so many light years away from the girl dry humping garish looking bears for all the world to see it's astounding.

Sad this awkward spectacle might actually illustrate to even one solitary person what a 20 year old privileged girl thinks is attractive, appropriate, and appealing.

Sad that by the nature of her so-called job as a pop star, this performance (if you will) will be marketed as *sexy* to the world.  Especially to young men, women and girls.

And you know what?  During the debauchery, I never once stopped and said: Wow.  This girl is really talented. I'd like to buy her album.  Maybe that's saddest part of all considering what the show was about.

The spectacle was deliberate in its planning and execution.  It reeked of desperation of the worst possible kind.  Like when a smoker sprays Febreeze in a vain attempt to cover stale cigarette smell.  Underneath the layer of pretend spring clean, it's still just stale cigarette smell. There's simply no hiding desperation no matter how much you air freshener spray or in Miley's case how risque you get.


I don't have answers, but I choose to remain hopeful.  Hopeful someone tells Miley Cyrus to stop it and I certainly hope to the high heavens that she hears it.  I hope one day she will quit giving the bird to the show that made her famous with these desperate attempts to be grown-up and instead be grateful for the opportunities granted to only a select and privileged few.  I hope she chooses to respect herself.  I hope her parents start being parents - because clearly this kid needs a time-out.  For it's not too late to tell your child to knock it off.  It never is.

***

(A little bit later...)

I just peeked in at my sleeping daughter all tucked-in and sawing logs under her heart patterned duvet, with her fuzzy PJ pants, Super Grover T-shirt, and bright pink sleep mask she insists on wearing that says, "Shhh" on it.  I hear the sweet sounds of a breathing pattern that makes me hope she's having a sweet 10 year old girl dream.  I see the pet goldfish she loves and calls, Weasley.  I see innocence. Sweet, and oh so temporary, innocence.

I wish I could bottle it up.

On the way out the door I see the one poster she has taped to her walls, it's of Taylor Swift, her favorite singer.  I stop and think about the former Hannah Montana and think, please, please dear daughter stay little for as long as possible,  respect yourself, and always, always, always know your value is, in a word: priceless.

Then I can't help but also think: Dear Taylor Swift, please oh pretty please, for the love of all that is holy, keep your clothes on, your tongue in your mouth and your bum gloriously twerk-free.