“No thank you,” my mother said politely declining the joint a scrappy twenty-something stoner offered her. To some, it might seem bizarre to have complete strangers offer your parents drugs. By this point in the evening, though, nothing could faze me.
If someone had predicted this situation a mere week earlier, I would have bet my very life against them. But, somehow, that Friday night, I was rocking out at a Spearhead and Ziggy Marley concert in Philadelphia with my mother. Again, it might seem bizarre to be at a concert with your parents or even to imagine your parents at a concert. But there my mother was at her very first concert and there I was, standing next to her.
It all began the previous Saturday when I had interviewed Michael Franti, the lead singer of Spearhead. It was the most amazing experience of my life and I, a total mommy’s girl, called my mother immediately. She asked question after question, wanting to know every minute detail. Tired from the experience, I obnoxiously replied, “You just wouldn’t understand.” “Well, I’d like to,” she said, undaunted by my bitchiness, and pushed on, “If they play here in D.C. again, I’d love to see them with you.” I laughed at the thought of my mother breaking it down with a bunch of stoned neo-hippies named Wisdom and Moonbeam.
I mean, my mother is chic. She’s beautiful, funny and absolutely selfless. But she is most definitely not hip. She’s pretty cool, but cool in a country club way, not a funky, order wine for the kids at dinner way. Very conservative and very Catholic, she never seemed like someone I could share the most minute details of my social life with. They say what you don’t know can’t hurt you, and this was the case for my mom. It was better off not making her worry. But, with me in college, our communication gap became painfully obvious. And pathetically, despite still living in my home city, I missed her. An odd combination of homesickness and just wanting to see my favorite band again hit me.
“How about Philadelphia? They play there in three days.” A startled pause. I’d called her bluff. She had to be bluffing. My mother at Spearhead would be like Tipper Gore at Metallica. A moment or so later, though, she cleared her throat. She called to my father and casually asked if they had plans and if he’d mind her “hopping to Philadelphia for the night.” She hadn’t been bluffing. I was going get to go to Philly, stay in a hotel, and see a show all expenses paid … with my mother.
Two Amtrak tickets and a Priceline hotel later, my mother and I walked into Philly’s slightly seedy Electric Factory. “Oh my, that’s LOUD,” she stated. The band was yet to take the stage. Oh shit, maybe this was a mistake. A teenage boy stumbled in front of us and vomited at our feet. Another in a tie-dyed T-shirt offered us some face paint. My mother looked exhausted. A crew of EMTs carried out a continuous stream of passed out teenagers on stretchers. Again, oh shit, I thought.
But, when the show began at 9:15, a full 15 minutes past my mom’s bedtime, Spearhead took the stage and my mother and I danced for the entire three-hour set. I stopped caring that a bunch of drunken teens I didn’t know would think I was a mommy’s girl. My mother stopped caring about the stale scent of urine, the rampant drug abuse and even the music she really didn’t like very much. I’ll admit, she had a harder time than I did. In fact, it was the most fun I’ve had in a long time. Sweating and our feet aching, we sat down in the back of the club as Ziggy Marley took the stage. I stared at my mom and wondered why I had always given her so little credit.
It was the first time I had ever let her into my world; I was glad to have her there and she had handled it incredibly well. Maybe at the next show, we’ll even let Moonbeam paint both of our faces.
Kathryn Brand is a first-year in the Business school and an assistant leisure editor of The Georgetown Voice. She took YOUR mom to a concert … last night! Ohh! … yeah, she’s in the business frat.
