Bad Kid Reborn

“What about you Black Jesus, you’re a religious man,”

The blonde bombshell purrs into her headset with a pouty tone,

Straddling the statuesque dancer she has lovingly deemed

Dark Messiah of the show,

“When people talk about you or say things to hurt your feelings, do you give a fuck?”

The makeup painted martyr purses his lips, a disdainful look on his face. His head swerves left, right, then left again, like a neighing horse before he signals a distinct ‘no,’ his pointer finger wagging violently into a single, attitudinal snap, his face landing in a deadpan stare that reads “bitch, please” to the audience of thousands.

Tens of thousands.

The crowd screams and the chanteuse carries on.

“Ooooh! Not even Black Jesus has a single fuck to give,” the icon relays to the sparkling sea of glistening eyes, glittering hairdos, and bedazzled jackets.

Vibrant LGBT flags wave above heads, sweaty hands grip fan art waiting to be thrown on stage as gifts, offerings to their pop goddess.

They’ve waited weeks, counted hours, paid hundreds and now they have filled The Staples Center in Los Angeles, California with their elaborate costumes, styles, and color palettes popularized by their queen.

It’s not Madonna.

It isn’t “Britney, bitch.”

It is none other than Mother Monster herself.

Lady Gaga.

She dismounts the dancer and struts down a catwalk encircling the “Monster Pit,” an exclusive standing only area reserved for those dedicated enough to wait hours, even days, to be among the privileged hundred or so admitted into the enclosed section. It’s considered an honor among the fan community to make it in.

We make it in. My friends and I. We’re buzzing, so high,

Bodies sweat drenched, mascara eyes

Wet with tears, voices hoarse from screaming out our lungs,

We’re jammed elbow to elbow with dozens of strangers; it feels like home.

Her aura radiates into ours from her charismatic body, her voice’s unique timbre.

Gaga walks near our spot in the pit, just feet away, giving a speech on self-acceptance, on not caring what anybody has to say about what you look like or what you wear or what you say or like to do. She talks about just being you, no matter what. She names countless ethnicities and nationalities and cultures and sexual orientations and ways of personal identification altogether in the airspace of a stadium and wraps them together with words of love and encouragement to be oneself to the absolute fullest. She pauses and rests her intense gaze on different section of the audience at different points in her monologue so we all get to receive a stern look of truth.

We let the magic of the moment rain down on us, the wisdom to our wanting hearts.

She sums up the speech with a question and the weight of her mezzo-saprano voice makes it feel as if she is addressing the heart of each and everyone of us in that stadium, no screens, no filters.

“So,” she cast her gaze out to the masses “Los Angeles, when it comes to what anyone has to say about who you are....DO. YOU. GIVE. A. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK???!!!!!!?!?!?!!?!?!?!!!”

The audience roars as our monicker ‘little monsters’ might suggest.

“I didn’t think you would, you’re just a bunch of Bad Kids like your mama.”

Dun-Nuhhhhhh Nuhhh nuhhh nuhh nuhh

A jarring guitar riff careens through the speakers and the lighting shifts. The mood is electric and gritty. Gaga runs towards the center stage landing in a knee slide like a true rockstar.

“WE DON’T CARE WHAT PEOPLE SAY, WE KNOW THE TRUTH!” Gaga screams with the backing vocals. “ENOUGH IS ENOUGH OF THIS HORSE SHI-“

Thus begins a live performance of “Bad Kids” by Lady Gaga on her Born This Way World Tour. It is in this very moment that my relationship to my own gayness, my own blackness, my flamboyancy, is shifted.

“I’m a twit, degenerate young rebel and I’m proud of it,” She sings.

I think of all the times I defiantly wear my flamboyant outfits whenever I want, wherever I want. Boys aren’t supposed to wear what I wear...I’m a rebel, I make you uncomfortable by being me and I’m proud of it.

“I’m so bad, and I don’t give a damn I love it when you’re mad, when you’re mad.”

I think of the complicated pleasure in upsetting my parents with what I wear, how I style my hair. With what I do and say online.

“I’m a bitch, I’m a loser maybe, baby, I should quit.”

I think of the doubts I have of chasing my dreams of becoming a dancer, or a writer or anything at all.

“My parents died until they got divorced ‘cause I ruined their lives.”

I think of my parent’s divorce. My Dad’s second divorce. And my Mom’s second divorce...I remember all the trauma that comes from watching a home fall apart, once, twice, three times and all years before driving age. Somehow the upbeat synth-pop record envelopes the rage and shame and pain of growing up a bit of a black sheep and transmutes it into a triumphant joy...

“Don’t be insecure if your heart is pure,” Gaga croons.

I look around and see countless bodies dancing, flailing, singing, crying, as the tension of the punk sounding verses smooth into buttery chords and sugary sweet harmonies in the choruses. With light and fluttery melody our icon is singing us musical mantras and I wonder how many connect to some of the lyrics as deeply as I do.

“You’re still good to me if you’re a bad kid baby,”

I think of the times my mom would flip out about my report card or her outrage at the attire I wanted to wear to prom. I try not to think of the shock and tears in her eyes when I told her I was gay.

“I’m a bad kid and I will survive,”

I dance the pain away with all the fellow misfits and letdowns around me singing as loud and proud as I am.

“Don’t be insecure if your heart is pure,”

I think about how at the end of the day, through all my fuck ups in my teen years my intention is still to do well by myself and others.

“You’re still good to me if you’re a bad kid, baby...a bad kid baby...”

“A bad kid baby.”

Here, in this moment, in a swarm of singing, screaming, sweaty “bad kids” I find a comfort, an understanding, a resounding truth in the song. I feel like it’s being serenaded directly to me by one person who makes me believe in myself with the power of her lyric and song.

In this moment I find lasting change,

In this moment, and in this song,

Over and over throughout my life,

I am a bad kid,

Reborn.