It seemed like a good idea, at first. My husband and I were sober the day we
purchased our 14 and 15 year old daughters tickets to see Pitbull and Enrique
Iglesias. The girls were ecstatic when
they heard on the radio these guys were coming to our town. Neither thought to ask for tickets for
Christmas, which made the purchase that much more exciting. Our goal was to give the girls a gift they’d
remember long after the scent of pine, scotch tape, and cider faded from air.
The girls were excited, initially. Not only were they going to their first
concert, but they were going alone. That’s
right, mom and dad were staying out of the picture. But I noticed as the two month countdown began
to the big day, no one was counting but me. When I asked if any of their
friends were going, the answer came with a perturbed eye roll, “no mom.” And I
was surprised neither of them bothered to mention the concert to their
grandparents. This is when I started to
question the purchase. Was this a bad
idea? Our city claims to be the “Live Music
Capital of the World”, but maybe we were thrusting our girls into a world they
weren’t ready to experience? And why wasn’t I sharing the idea I thought was
brilliant with my friends and family?
Was I embarrassed by my actions? And
then I realized something I’m not proud to admit, I was. I was afraid of being judged, poorly. What kind of mom thinks it’s a good idea to
throw her girls into an arena with 17,000 strangers and no parental
supervision?
The ugly word “doubt” ruled my brainwaves as I sat at the laptop and
searched online for reviews of the previous performances. Any crowd induced deaths? No.
Any muggings? No. Any fights? No. Instead of finding proof that my doubts were justified, I read things like, “it’s one giant party…everyone is out of their
seat dancing… an amazing night worth the money....Enrique really bonds with the
crowd and Pitbull is incredible.” Doubts
diminished.
The night was clear and the drive downtown was quiet. I put a Pitbull CD in hoping it would bring
life to the backseat, but the girls didn’t offer a word – only looked out their
windows. As we made our exit off the
interstate, traffic came to a halt. A
beat up little Hyundai next to us had windows rolled down, and two young men
wildly bobbing their heads to a beat in tune with ours. The tiny metal on wheels shook with
excitement as their bodies jumped up and down.
A few guys and a lady roamed the street selling t-shirts. I could feel
energy surging, not from the backseat, but from my own. Knowing our girls were going to their first
concert released memories that fluttered back with vivid clarity. I was their age when I was released in the
wild to my first big venue concert. Unlike
the girls, I didn’t go with my sister. I
had a cool Aunt a decade older than me that invited me to tag along. My Aunt’s sprayed hair (it was the 80’s) was
the only thing higher than my spirit! I recalled the thrill that came with my entry ticket. I understood why some guitars were called “electric”,
my ears rang and carried the beat long after the concert ended, and I loved
it. The experience also taught me if you’re
going to a concert where the musicians are getting a workout performing on
stage, they sweat…and it flies onto anyone within spitting distance (which isn’t
always good!). Most importantly, I
learned the exhilaration that stems from being in a room full of people who
share your musical tastes. The energy
and excitement are tangible, electric! That
magical night opened up a new world, one where I was on the fringe of something
beyond comprehension. No longer a girl,
and not yet a woman. I was in a state of
becoming.
And I let them go.
The traffic wasn’t moving, and the girls only had 20 minutes
before the concert started. My husband
pointed out a sidewalk that appeared to go in the direction we were heading. It was a ½ mile walk to the stadium. We could get there in time, but I would have
to get out of the car with reluctant girls, dodge traffic, cross multiple busy
intersections and walk – fast.
As we reached the front of the arena, I wasn’t sure if my
heart or the radio station playing Pitbull tunes overhead pounded harder. A
helpful man looked at my girls’ tickets and pointed them in the direction
closest to their seats. I watched as
their body language shifted from doubt to eager anticipation. And I smiled when they went through the
entrance without me, and didn’t look back.
Two hours into the show I received a text along with a photograph, “This is awesome, OMG!”
I let them go.
They survived. And
memories were made, for everyone.
