it depends on the musician or, more accurately, whoever wrote the song. None of them signed with my parents would be allowed to record something that was downright discriminatory. Offensive to some, sure. Can’t please everyone.”
“So, you’d support someone who sang lyrics like, Bitch, get down on your knees?”
Again, the tone is judgmental. But, unlike last time, I’m not going to tiptoe. “You want me to be honest here, right?”
She narrows her eyes and nods.
“I’ve never been in a position that bitch, get down on your knees seemed remotely acceptable. But—”
“See? That right there. They have an obligation to humanity to not say shit like that. Then everyone around thinks it’s acceptable.”
“So, we should sensor art?”
“Oh my God, really? That’s what you take away from that?” she huffs.
“Savvy, chill. As I was saying …” I wait for her to interrupt, but she simply crosses her arms and scowls. “I can tell you with absolute certainty that some women like that. A lot, actually. There’s a whole subculture of submissive and Dominant people.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“And,” I stress, “some men like that shit, too. Feeds a need they have. And if their partner is down with it, who are we to judge? Different strokes for different folks, right?”
“I can’t accept that. Men are—”
“I’m not sure who hurt you, babe, and I hope someday you can trust me to share your pains with, but I can promise you that not every man in the world is a predator. I can promise you that not every man wants to oppress women. And I can promise you that, when you give just a little bit of that burden, the one of pain you carry, all the shit I see in those eyes is going to bubble to the top. And, Savvy, you’re going to be unstoppable.”
“Do you think I’m some sort of charity case? Do you think I’m weak because you saw me”—she looks down—“cry?”
“No. Not one fucking part of me sees you as either. What I see is strength. What I see is someone who looks at the world the same as I do, but through a different lens, because we’ve had a different view, taken a different path.”
She looks up now, her eyebrows knitted together, but in confusion, not anger.
“Savvy, there is a fire inside of you that burns so bright that people will either try to stay away from it because it can be intimidating as fuck, extinguish it because they don’t want you to burn brighter than them, or are drawn to it because they fucking know something great is about to happen.”
Her eyes widen, and I nod.
“I know passion. I see it in the people my parents represent. I have it in everything I do, because they fan the fuck out of my flame. I just want a front row for your show.”
“That’s putting a lot of expectations on someone who wanted to be an organic farmer. Spoiler alert: I’m out of here as soon as I graduate.”
“Then show me something great until then.”
“By great, do you mean getting humiliated by a so-called friend and Atilla the Hun?”
“By great, I mean, keep being you. Dig through the dirt, farm girl, find your passion, and direct all that energy into it. Those high school mean girls will either keep on being haters, or they’ll want to emulate you.”
I grab her mug and mine and head toward the stairs. “Let’s go watch some TV.”
“I don’t watch TV; it’s mindless.”
“Good, we both deserve a little bit of that once in a while.”
“I’d rather talk.”
I like that. I like that a lot.
“Perfect. So, tell me what you plan to do now that you aren’t going to be a farmer.” I head up the stairs and hear her following.
“Peace Corps.”
“To help people.”
“Yeah, and travel.”
“There are other ways to do that, too.”
“Whatever. You should be more worried that your boy band days are about numbered.”
I stop and look back, seeing her smiling.
“What?”
“Thank you.”
“What?”
“Thank you for not objectifying me.”
She gasps, “Oh my God, are you for real right now?”
“What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, Savannah.”
“What is that even supposed to mean?” she says, now stomping up the stairs.
“I said musician, and you place me into a boy band grouping. You said farmer, and I didn’t mention a milk maiden because you’d look hot as hell in one of those little outfits.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says in mock exasperation.
I walk in and set her cup on my nightstand. “Bed’s yours, princess.” Then I walk over