Roger Daltrey Saved My Life

Now, It's Beyoncé's Turn ...

I’m always skippin’ for joy on this day, September 5th.
Exactly 50 years ago, I was to be wed. At 19. To the local football captain. At a local wedding factory. In my local town. In Joisey.

Funny that I remember the date so well — when I don’t remember dates for shit. But this one. This one I do.

The breakup — which happened in my canary yellow Volkswagen bug — with de rigueur flowered decals — with THE WHO’s screaming “I’M FREE” in the background — was a magical mystery moment — for me. Roger Daltrey — who will always have a special place in my heart — and in my groin — urged me to seize the moment. And I did.

My poor jock had no idea it was coming. I didn’t have the imagination to bolt earlier — though I knew I was bored to death. But there was no kind of mentor to help me imagine a different life …

We’re Irish. We’re Catholic. We’re in a bubble — my house and the dozens of relatives surrounding us in the burbs. Some of us girl babies went to college. Most of us did not. We were trained to contribute to the house. Then to marry. Marry a nice Irish Catholic guy. Have kids. Many many kids if we were “blessed.”

Kill me.

I know my mother sniffed out my restless spirit — fingering those rosary beads — a lot. She was oh-so-happy to see that ring on my finger. Fourth one out of the house. One more daughter to go. The son was not a part of the equation … the way things were.

Well. I fucked up her plans.

The Vietnam war was upon us. And Scarlett O’Hara fantasies were upon me.

I could see myself in black — in one of those veiled film noir numbers covering up my very made-up face. I’d make a grand widow, baby. I would marry my way out of the house, into freedom — and reincarnate myself.

I am not proud of any of this. But I am telling you what this 19-year-old clueless kid could see.

Not much.

Well. The poor jock never went to war.

And I am sorry I broke this young boy’s heart.

Though he did impregnate my neighbor within three months. And married within five.

Buy hey…

Nothing to do with my personal fuckin liberation as I began to carve out a sense of what the word “freedom” could mean … with Roger Daltrey’s “I’m Free” from TOMMY — churning through me.

It was my theme.

I’m free, I’m free
And freedom tastes of reality
I’m free, I’m free
And I’m waiting for you to follow me

Yeah, yeah. I know the lyrics don’t look like much here. But Pete Townsend’s over-the-top-fabulistic-fantasy-opera isn’t supposed to look good on paper — just star Ann-Margaret in the Ken Russel movie adaptation — and you’re done.

The rousing, the healing, the sensational epic-ness — blasting their way into my tiny Volkswagen. Catapulting me out of that world and into the great unknown.

I was feeling it!

TOMMY came alive.
I came alive.
And NOW … it’s OUR turn … no longer just me.

Beyoncé’s song “FREEDOM”
Kamala’s theme.

Our theme.

Now we’re seizing the moment.
This is a freedom I can feel.

Again.

Freedom! Freedom! I can’t move
Freedom, cut me loose!
Freedom! Freedom! Where are you?
’Cause I need freedom, too!

Beyoncé dedicated this song to black women and mothers everywhere.

She refers to herself as a force of nature.

I respect that. I feel that. I think we all do.

But now it is a song for all of us.

It is the driving force behind Kamala. And all of our futures.

Beyoncé’s “FREEDOM” has done the work — imagining a woman’s leadership — and a woman of color to boot — on the global stage.

Again.

I just finished reading Cleopatra, situhs — so it is again.
We know we have been there.

The epic song “I’M FREE” saved me 50 years ago.

And now, in another form, it saves me … us … again.

We don’t have to make sense of  “TOMMY.”

We just have to feel it!