I’d like to point out that Beyonce was singing the NATIONAL ANTHEM for ONE MILLION PEOPLE, OUTSIDE, with probably more uncontrollable factors than any of us can even fathom. And that, P.S., it was a free show. But I already wrote a post defending Beyonce back when she had Blue Ivy and everyone was attacking her for renting out multiple hospital rooms. My defense was simply: “um … she’s B-E-Y-O-N-C-E.” The culture that has treated her like some supernatural demi-goddess gets irritated when she acts like one. Oh well.
I also defended Hilary Clinton when she was attacked for oh-so-substantive reasons, like not wearing makeup, but wearing pantsuits, and of course, too much dancing.
I’ve also defended Lena Dunham. The only thing she’s done that’s made me look askance is to wear what must have been ridiculously high heels to the Golden Globes (really, Lena, you ARE being taken seriously—one-million-dollar-book-contract seriously—and then you toddled about like a little girl in her mommy’s stilettos—so not cool).
Here I am, a professional woman, one who makes little money and has very, very little recognition, and yet somehow I feel compelled to defend these much wealthier, more successful women. Each day, my chances of ever being on David Letterman grown thinner and thinner (stop laughing—there’s still a chance), and yet when I hear about Anne Hathaway’s twat shot, my response is to defend her, too: She didn’t wear panties because she didn’t want panty lines! She was ready for the still shots! You try to hold your legs together while getting out of a car in a full-length, fitted evening gown and high heels!
We want our stars to be better/higher/faster/more super than us, but when they are, we cut them down. Our culture forces our celebrities to hide from paparazzi and then criticizes them for the special treatment they require because of that constant invasion. How could Beyonce risk a screw-up, even the teeny tiniest of voice cracks?
I sit in my cinderblock windowless office and write my column quietly, in privacy. My possible audience is ginormous; my probable audience not as big, so my risk factor is not anywhere the same as a live performance in front of one million people. I get to edit my words and have an editor who double-checks me. Even though cyber trolls sometimes attack, I’m still relatively safe.
Maybe, by defending these successful powerful women, I’m fulfilling some psychological need of my own, and subconsciously aligning myself with them. I can pick my nose on the subway or pull underwear out of my butt cheeks when need be without it being immortalized on film, and still feel I’m in the same camp as the famous and can feel their pain, class status aside. What else would make me defend Snooki?