I’m so late with this, but having a sick child at home seems to open up hours and hours to respond to things like this. Did you see it? Sanjaya’s performance the other night on American Idol? If not, go here.
Did you absolutely love that little girl? Oh. My. Gosh. I felt so bad for her, having her face on the screen like that with the ugly cry.
Oh, but I so totally get it. Not that I love Sanjaya (that would be illegal in most states, anyway), but I loved David Cassidy when I was her age and he couldn’t sing any better or any worse than this beautiful boy with the wacko hair. I mean, come on, didn’t you ever just love someone cuz s/he could sing and move (and not necessarily well) and was pretty? If you weren’t moved to relive your pre-pubescence in that moment and feel what that little girl felt, well, wake yourself up.
Of course it’s easy for me to remember it: I’m living in the midst of it. My older two girls fit the profile and do love Sanjaya. There was one night when I had to stand between my husband and my girls because they had control of the phone and insisted on voting for Sanjaya. “Don’t do that,” my old husband who never loved a long-haired boy he’d never met before said to these little girls who are just starting to dream of loving boys they will never meet. “He can’t sing. Vote for Lakisha,” he insisted, as if he was speaking to girls capable of reason.
Just let them, I said out of the side of my mouth. Let it go.
So, you can blame me and my girls for allowing Sanjaya into the final 12, now 10. I can take it. I’ve got broad shoulders–and a box of Kleenex for that little girl…and me.