"Famous? You mean like Justin Beiber?" I ask. The world's most famous teen is front page news as he tours Alberta, so he's top of my head.
"Yes, but not for singing."
"What do you want to be famous for?"
"Dunno." The little one skips off to do her hair (a talent she's cultivated with no guidance from me).
I follow her to the bathroom. "Maybe you could be a famous writer?"
She giggles as she stares at herself in the mirror. "Writers don't get famous, Mom."
"Some do." I open the door wide and watch her organize her locks with a selection of color co-ordinated clips. Damn, she's good.
"J.K. Rowling is famous."
"What book did he write?"
"She. She wrote all the Harry Potter books." The child puts down the last hair clip, gives me a look I didn't expect for another seven years.
"Harry Potter is movies, Mom. The movie is famous. TV stars are famous, and singers."
So, that's that.
As I watch my girl make order of her last errant strands my thoughts return to young Mr. Beiber. I recently watched a documentary on his rise to prominence. It included footage of an early concert where many of the Moms present were crying and screaming nearly as passionately as their daughters.
I kind of get it. I mean most of these women, in their thirties now, were deprived of decent boys to scream at during adolescence. They missed Donny Osmond, David Cassidy, the Bay City Rollers and all those lesser known yester-cuties currently making the rehab reality show circuit. Women, I feel your loss, but let me say this clearly - save your tears for a your pillow. Adult women screaming, swooning and weeping over a barely pubescent boy is just creepy.
But back to the subject of fame. In a later conversation, the little one asks what I want to be famous for.
I tell her I don't think that I want to be famous.
She looks at me as though I've just confessed that I eat fairies for breakfast. "Then what do you want to do?"
"My best," I tell her. Her gaze doesn't shift and I can feel my eyes brimming with tears, the way they do when I tell the myself an absolute truth. She shakes her head.
"That's not the same as famous."
"You're right, it's not. And I'm totally fine with that."
She grabs my hand. "Oh, don't cry, Mom."
"It's OK," I tell her. I want to explain that there are a thousand things more important than famous. Instead I kiss her head and murmur into her well-managed hair, "these are happy tears."
Happily flying under the radar,
Kari
Tell her that being famous now (especially for non singers and non writers) is not about being admired or loved but rather being hunted and tormented for every misstep and accident and basically used as a punching bag for mean spirited bloggers and gossips of all kinds. Unlike the way it was for say,Elizabeth Taylor, fame as a job today is very ugly indeed. Liz Taylor didn't have it that easy either so that one can only imagine how soul crushing it is now.
ReplyDeleteA rare bonding moment. Take it! I hear they don't come around often.
ReplyDeleteI think you're right, Andrea. Fame is test you author yourself... but someone else does the marking.
ReplyDeleteThe things people do to be famous is certainly a low standard of what there is to do in life, but could it be that one's best is also sometimes a low bar?
ReplyDeleteDon't write stuff like that anymore. You're making ME cry.
ReplyDelete-Yanick
No such thing as a low bar. Everyone almost always does the easiest thing. Some people find it easier to do more, some find it easier to do less.
ReplyDeleteBest is different.
Best is exceeding yourself. You hardly ever get famous for doing that.
KS