An Open Letter

To Whom it may concern,

This is an open letter in regards to the recent hubbub about Miley Cyrus.

Don’t worry, I won’t tell you to calm down. I saw clips of the VMA performance, it was enough to recognize it wasn’t very appropriate for family viewing. This is also not an invitation to start spewing venom about her morals, lack of them or her sudden change in “character.”

First off, Miley, you are welcome to eat dinner or stay in my home any time. Advance notice is preferred so I can clean off the dining table and fix something besides sloppy joes. Unless, of course, you want sloppy joes. I don’t do artisan baked goods, so ordinary buns from Meijer will have to do. I do make a mean salsa, and a pretty good iced tea.

Other than the advanced notice there are a couple of other things – rules, actually – you need to follow. One: no cussing in my house, of any kind – ever. I think it makes people look really, really stupid, and you’re not stupid. Two: if you come to stay you gotta come to to church with us on Sunday. Three: church means appropriate clothes. They don’t have to be fancy, or dressy, or include a hat. They must properly cover the parts Eve was suddenly ashamed to have exposed. Four: no smoking in the house. You can stand outside in the cold, wind, rain or whatever elements nature provides like i make everyone else do. Five: you may not call me by my first name, not even in the genteel way southerners so often do. To you I am Mrs Momma Lady.

Secondly, to all the detractors, haters and judgmental folks out there. To you I say Hush! Just wait a minute. I’ll get back to you later.

Thirdly, back to you Miley. I saw your video Wrecking Ball. Actually it was thrust at me by Sweet Pea. She said ‘I don’t get why people are hating on her so much.’ She went on to say your wardrobe and lack of it isn’t the only thing about the video and song people should notice. Sweet Pea said it was a love song, but a sad one ..and really, really good. I watched it. Later I watched it again; then again. I might even download it (gasp!) just so I don’t have to watch the video over and over.

Fourthly, I get it. I understand the song. I understand the video. I understand the point of the nakedness. I get it! And that’s why I’m writing this open letter. This is where the detractors, haters and judgers can come back in. But you still need to be quiet, so I can explain it to you.

Fifthly, Wrecking Ball, the video, is a metaphor. Listen to the song – listen, don’t watch. Listen to the words and the ache that goes with them. When you hear the story in the lyric you can watch the video again and the metaphor comes screaming through. See the cinder block walls we put up around our hearts, our selves, to keep us in or others out; the sledgehammer to chip away futilely from the entrapment we’ve put ourselves in. The wrecking ball itself destroys the walls we’ve put up because either the other person or relationship is a force beyond our emotional control. The ball has broken through our self-imposed safe zone, leaving it in shattered pieces. The nudity is the vulnerability we experience while in a relationship – we are exposed, fragile. The wrecking ball is the roller coaster or chaos of the emotional journey of falling in love, out of it and staying even though you know it’s a mess.

Like I said, I get it. I hope the rest of you can see past the obvious and see the deeper picture. I hope the song wasn’t autobiographical. Miley, you are too young to experience this sort of relational chaos and heartbreak. My mother’s heart aches at the thought.

Now go find something decent to wear and come for sloppy joes. I might even make pie, or my not-quite-world famous chocolate chip cookies. I’ll even pour you a glass of iced tea.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Note: I don’t like the soft porn aspect of the director’s and editor’s final cut of the video to make Miley appear more sensual in slow motion than actual speed would. Second note: what is with the licking in both recent videos from this new album? And the fixation with your tongue? I don’t get that.

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