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| http://nydn.us/XhYaFX |
Here’s what I think: Beyoncé was beyond bad. And I don’t
mean her singing. She’s a beautiful woman and a talented vocalist, but her
bustier, bust-a-move performance at the Superbowl left me feeling frustrated with
our culture’s salacious standards for prime-time programming.
Maybe you’re rolling your eyes, thinking this is just
another prudish rant from an evangelical soccer mom. And maybe it is. But the
show ended over an hour ago, and I’m still blushing. I didn’t want my husband
watching that. I didn’t want my daughters watching that. And even though my son
is still prepubescent, I didn’t want him watching it, either. He had left the
room by halftime. Even though he wouldn’t have fully understood the innuendos
of the choreography, I’m pretty sure he would have disapproved the half-naked
gyrations going on on-screen. But could he have averted his eyes? I’m not sure.
Did you?
What makes me mad is that I want to believe our country is
nobler than that, too decent to allow burlesque fill the bill for family
entertainment. We can do better, and we often do. So why not do better on the highest-rated
evening of American television viewing?
What makes me sad is that this weekend tops the U.S.
Attorney General’s charts for sex trafficking, a shameful exploitation of
human rights that nobody in good conscience can publicly support. And yet, we support
sexually explicit exhibitions such as Beyoncé and pals’. We leave our
TVs tuned to the kind of display formerly reserved for bachelor parties,
quietly leering at the leggy ladies like it’s our cultural duty to bear witness,
lest we fail to perform at the water cooler tomorrow.
Shortly after the show, one of my friends (notably, a heterosexual
male) posted a YouTube video of The Ohio State marching band,
advocating for their employment on next year’s Superbowl stage. I applaud his notion,
although I’m too worldly to think the idea will take hold. We’ve clearly
crossed a line in our culture—oh, long ago, I know, I know.
But next year I,
for one, will cross the line from my living room chair to my television’s off button.
The purity of my family’s thoughts and the innocence of my children matters more to me than being in the know
about what the Superbowl stars did—or didn’t—wear.
