he gunshots and fake blood splattering onto the motel bed made me flinch and look away from the stage toward my mother. She seemed unbothered, smiling and clapping her hands. 

We were at my first Madonna concert. A mere 13-year-old, I had never seen anything like it before.   

I had been expecting the 52-year-old singer to simply run through the hits my mom always turned up on the local oldies station. Instead, Madonna opened the concert by falling down from an elevated glass confession box she had shattered with a makeshift rifle. In a skintight black bodysuit, she began belting out a song off her new album that I had never even heard before. 

Naturally, my life was changed.

The whole concert was a wonderfully weird, violent mess, and I loved every minute of it. By the end of it, Madonna had pretended to shoot and kill half of her backup dancers, stripped down to her lingerie and rolled around on a piano, whirled around a baton while dressed up as a cheerleader and transformed herself into a nun — all in the span of two hours. I was enthralled, yet also so confused. 

This was my SoulCycle-loving, Lululemon-wearing, eye surgeon mother’s hero? The mother who constantly told me to cover up with a sweater before I left the house?

Like most people born in 1998, I’d thought of Madonna as a figure permanently stuck in the ‘80s, forever belting out “Like a Virgin” in an endless, outdated loop. The closer I began to look, however, the more I realized Madonna’s ubiquity, not just in the world but in my daily life.

Legend has it that I first appeared to the world as “Ray of Light” poured into the hospital room from my mother’s birthing CD. And while most kids grew up dancing along to the Wiggles, I jumped along to “Material Girl” and “Like a Prayer.” My bedtime reading was “The English Roses,” a children’s book written by, you guessed it, Madonna. I guess it was only a matter of time before I got on board. 

Read full article at The Daily Californian