Growing Up with Madonna

In the 80s and 90s, our summers in Merced, California were spent at home, in front of my Dad's dirty white and blue office fan. He hated running the air conditioner and convinced us that if my sisters and I drew the curtains, we'd stay cool enough.

Too hot to hang out in the backyard, we three girls were left in our dark house with only our parents' huge sound system, dimmer-controlled track lighting and each other to stay amused. Dad's stoney affection for his vinyl collection meant our tape selection stayed the same for about ten years and that even after his big-bellied buddy Rick gifted him a CD player, with Counting Crow's August and Everything After to get him going, he resisted. Steering clear of his off-limits records, my sisters and I abused his tapes, playing them to death. It wasn't about Prince, Basia or The Commodores. We only had eyes for the girl who was singing it to us straight about matters of the world and the heart: Madonna.

Supplying the beat for our choreographed dances or cooling us off while we stared at the cottage cheese ceilings in the hallway, Madonna was always the fourth girl in the room. From childhood obsession, Madonna emerged as a steadfast companion to so many of my favorite memories and missteps. I have never bowed to the Thrown of M, but upon some recent reflection, I discovered that my love for the Material Girl was a deep and profound one and that during the epic "this is your life" montage that runs through my mind constantly, she is the soundtrack.

"Papa Don't Preach"

Foreshadowing future daddy issues and a love of doing "me," I made sure most of the routines I put together to show my parents when they got home were to "Papa Don't Preach." It always kicked-off the same: Wrists crossed above my head, swaying side to side, and then pivoting on my heels to face my sisters. Shoulder to the left, a double shoulder to the right, repeat. The cinematic and symphonic interlude to this 80s opera set the tone for the story I would attempt to convey as a five-year-old. It wasn't one I knew personally (imprisonment, fear, heartache, unexpected pregnancy) but with tight fists and a heavy stomp in place, lord knows I felt it. I'm still not sure I'm picking-up what Madge is putting down here, but I am absolutely positive I landed my first body roll to the chorus of this track.

"Material Girl"

When I told my dad I was quitting swimming to focus on dance, he cried. I was eleven, couldn't swim in a straight line and was over it. After calming down, he told me that he'd allow it if I joined a team. In our small town, that only left one option: Denisa's DJettes. The tryouts were a grueling combo of across the floor jazz walks, the ability to snap with both hands, high kicks and an interview portion. Each audition lasted around 5 minutes and would be set to the song of the dancer's choosing. The choice for me was obvious: "Material Girl." It was innocent, while showing mature tastes. It was spunky and had a consistent beat. Obviously, I nailed it. My sexy walk across the floor was beyond my years and my interview answer about my love for Taco Bell was perfectly delivered. With Madonna cheering me on, not making it never crossed my mind.

"Like A Virgin"

In seventh grade I started a singing telegram business to make some extra money. Nothing like watching a couple of awkward teens, with bad bras and pubescent pizza faces harmonize radio hits. Our first customer asked that we surprise his friend at the mall food court with a performance of "Like A Virgin." Picture, a group of 13-year-old girls singing a capella about being "touched for the very first time" while shimmying in low-rise jeans in front of Sbarro. It was as sound a business model as any.

"Don't Tell Me"

It was the summer before sophomore year and my bloated face was perfectly framed by the Sun In-streaked haircut my Mom's friend gave me in her backyard. On a carpeted stage at the Women's Club for a local's 90th birthday, my dance troupe's encore performance to our hip-hop dance to "Highway To The Dangerzone" was a western-inspired tap routine to "Don't Tell Me." One of the accompanying performers was a teacher at my high school who moonlighted as a body-builder. A few weeks earlier, she showed our dance class her American Gladiator tryout routine to which we all step clapped as she walked on her hands in a thong, leotard bikini brief across the room. Now, the whole team did our best to avoid each other on the narrow space we kick-ball-changed across as the room full of people scraping bits of potato salad from their styrofoam plates mingled. Despite the crowd's lack of apparent auspiciousness, I was certain there was an embedded talent scout admiring my moves, ready to make me a star.

"Live To Tell"

After college, I used my remaining student loans to move to Mexico City. I found a job via Craigslist and somehow convinced everyone that I had it all under control. After only a month in one of the biggest and wildest cities in the Western Hemisphere, I made party friends with a group of rich kids via MySpace, fell for a beautiful documentary filmmaker who lived in an apartment with ivy growing up the walls and realized the job I left America for was completely fake. Heartbroken, poor, very drunk and with a fresh tattoo from a square shaped man named "Master," I surrendered.

Without a leg to stand-on and with only a few hundred dollars to my name, I knew my days in Mexico City were numbered. I bought one of everything in the case from the bakery on the corner and poured myself a tall glass of silver tequila. I sat on the floor of my bedroom and queued up "Live To Tell." I cried while stuffing my mouth and washing it down in rhythm, thinking about the city that served me so wrong in so many ways but changed me for the better, forever.

"Celebration (Benny Benassi Remix)"

Madonna - Celebration (Benny Benassi Remix Edit) from Szeles Zsolt on Vimeo.

A break-up, a layoff and a health scare can cause even the baddest bitch to tailspin. Lumpy and low energy I couldn't rely on my go-to break-up banger ("Here I Go Again" by White Snake). I needed a song with backbeat so heavy it could shake the house and me in to action.

With nothing but time on my hands and the world on my shoulders, even if miles away, I made myself walk to all of my doctor appointments. It was routine to travel with my phone in my pocket, finger over the shuffle button, skipping every song just a few seconds after it started. It was the first time in life that I couldn't find a song to help me through it.

That was until Madonna's flirtations and whispers lisped in to my ear: "Haven't I seen you somewhere before? You look familiar. You wanna dance?" Yea. She had, and I fucking did. "Let's get this started. No more hesitations." The lyrics so fitting and the way it made me move so familiar, everything became clear. The only way to get past this funk was to dance through it.

A few months later I was on the road trip of a lifetime with friends, six weeks after that I was selling all my belongings and moving to Brooklyn, a month after that I landed my current job at VICE and a year and half later here I am.

Madonna and I have never been face-to-face, but she's always been in my ear and by my side reminding me that there's a song and dance for all of life's highs and lows.

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