I came to this epiphany a few weeks ago in the van on my way back to campus from Girls Inc. I was chatting away with my fellow tutors when one of them turned on the radio and rotated the dial to the local pop station. There I was, cool little me, with my purple embroidered Converse, humungous silver hoop earrings gracing my lobes, and my unironic Ron Weasley shirt (the cool, of course, being in the lack of irony. Irony was so 90s), bobbing my head along to the crunkin' beat.
For the past two semesters at Amherst I've been sort of trapped in the bubble of iTunesdom, hermit-ing away on my computer keeping up with music that is, let's just say, not exactly fresh and danceable for the most part. So, I haven't been exactly in the know when it comes to pop music lately, not counting the latest stylings from up-and-coming U.K. chanteuses Lily Allen, Amy Winehouse, and K.T. Tunstall. So this "Fergalicious" was new to me and I liked it.
That is, until I actually started listening to the lyrics.
"They want my treasure so they get their pleasures from my photo/You can see me, you can't squeeze me … Boys just come and go like seasons … So delicious (they wanna taste of what I got)/I'm Fergalicious (t-t-t-t-t-tasty, tasty) … ."
I ignored the vapidity and headed straight for the indecency. "Inappropriate," I thought to myself.
Wait-WHAT?
This, coming from the girl who once lauded Anna Nicole for her self-agency in making it on the cover of Playboy? This, coming from the girl who, at prom, danced freely, even suggestively, to "My Humps" atop a tall platform in front of the whole crowd? This coming from the girl who used to cashier at the world's sketchiest video store? (Make assumptions on your own about that one.)
What's happened to me?
All of a sudden, I now find my stomach turning when I listen to anything from Cassie's "Me & U" to pretty much every Pussycat Dolls song. Watching, listening, I feel as my eyes and my ears are being assaulted by a culture sinking lower and lower into the mucky muck. I'm even suddenly appalled by seeing girls in bikinis and men running around with their shirts off playing Ultimate.
More and more, I hear my inner voice repeating, "Inappropriate!"
This just can't be me. I mean, I'm known for my talent of misconstruing any spoken phrase into sexual innuendo. Especially if it's about someone's mom. People are constantly telling me how I (inadvertently) always seem to maneuver any topic of conversation onto sex. And I'm certainly not afraid of bawdy humor or flirtation. How can I suddenly wake up one day and discover myself to be a hypocrite?
Well, as any good little psychology major would tell me, it always comes down to the mother. Well, the entire constellation of family elders in my case. There was my grandmother, trying to teach me to be a proper young lady with the best manners, best elocution and best sense of presenting myself to the world. She taught me that Monica Lewinsky was a slut and yelled at me whenever I tried to make Barbie and Ken have sex. My parents, on the other hand, were children of the 60s and 70s. Totally free, totally unaware that even though I was only three, I was still able to recognize sex for what it really was when they didn't know I was watching the TV. Unlike most parents, they never shied away from telling me where babies come from, and even went into detail with me about the process when I asked at the age of five. My grandmother and my parents were always at odds about "propriety" when they were trying to raise me and poor little Robyn was split into two.
Which brings me back to Fergie. On the one hand, I'm inclined to applaud her for not shying away from her sexuality and for being a good role model for young girls who are being taught to not be afraid of expressing themselves. (Girl Power!) On the other hand, a little voice inside me is yelling, "Put on some decent clothes and shut your filthy little mouth! You're teaching young girls to be whores!" (Burn the skank!)
"I like Fergie," a friend once defended her to me. "'Fergalicious' has a good beat. 'Fergalicious' definitely makes the boys go crazy." Well, of course it does for you. You're a heterosexual male. What I'm concerned about is the message it sends, not only to young girls, but to society itself. We, as a whole, are okay with people like Fergie prancing around in their skivvies and alluding to free sex like it's candy. "They want a taste of what I got," she informs us.
It's degeneracy run amok!
So I've officially cashed in. I accept my old age. Some day I'll be able to tell my grandchildren of my "crazy" college days when I would table for Pro-Life campaigns and warn my fellow Amherstians against "hanky panky," "tomfoolery," and "shenanigans."
And I'll be oh-so-proud.