What to Give Teens for Christmas? Best Worst Gift EVER.

A re-post from last year . . . because the message endures. Happy holidays, friends, whichever you celebrate. At these times especially I am grateful for the village helping us raise our kids. <3, L.

Oh, the tyranny of the holiday season! Every crazy bit of it is amplified when teenagers live in the house. This year--inspired by my friend Deanna, a fierce single mama whose darling daughter is a freshman in high school--I'm shopping for my teenagers at Goodwill and in my mother-in-law's attic.  Why am I putting a bag of dingy old silver tableware under the Christmas tree? Read all about it! Also, feel free to adapt the idea for your own purposes. (Note: this stroke of gift-giving brilliance would likewise be perfect for a Bar or Bat Mitzvah, the first day of seventh grade or indeed a baby gift for new parents.)

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I’ve spent the last few weeks rummaging through estate sales, collecting a bunch of mismatched, past-their-prime spoons, forks, pitchers and tea trays. Most are merely plated; all are blackened with age and neglect. If a piece was sticky with grime, I snapped it up with special enthusiasm. Each piece--with a cloth and a lot of care--can be polished back into beautiful shape. And herein lies the best part of this gift for teenagers.

The adolescent years are rough for everyone, marked by conflict and confusion.All of it—the drama, the struggle, the strife, the fighting amongst the family—is as normal as it is awful. Our children are going to rebel. They're going to do stupid stuff. It's their job. Until further notice, we’re going to be at war with each other at least some of the time.

Teenager Time-Outs: The Gift of Pause

From now on, when my teenager and I are engaged in daily battle and I think we need a break, he will sit in silence and polish one piece of silver until it shines. The few minutes my child spends with a polishing cloth in his hands will give us both time to pause. In our too-busy, too-noisy world, a moment of silver silence is golden, indeed. Disengaging from conflict can be the most powerful (but difficult) course of action. When our children were little we gave time-outs: a chance to spend some quiet time alone, to calm down, to adjust behavior and then return to the demands of real life. Teenagers need time-outs, too. We all do. (For silver-polishing tips, consult this expert advice.)

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Silverware—decorative and practical, a tool so basic we might take it for granted—requires maintenance. Like all things of value (including personal relationships), good silver must be cared for and tended. The symbolism is apt: every day of our lives, we must face our responsibilities. When we practice daily habits of exercise and sound nutrition we reap the rewards of good health. When we maintain our possessions and relationships we invest in their working futures. It’s a chore, maintaining a house and vehicles and families and careers. But it’s unavoidable and it’s worth it. I hope restoring this silver--piece by piece--will instill in our boys the importance of maintenance. I hope their adult selves will view daily habits and maintenance as necessary, meditative and fulfilling. As I say so often our kids no longer pay attention: Life is hard, but worth it.

Polishing the Silver: We ALL Shine on!

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Sterling silver, a soft metal, has a “living finish,” highly reactive and susceptible to air, moisture and other common irritants. The other metals (especially copper) in sterling react and oxidize, forming an uneven, dark tarnish. Without frequent use and proper care, silver loses its original luster and can become completely covered in black. The tarnish, however, forms only on the surface. As a matter of fact, the layer of tarnish protects and preserves the silver underneath. 

The analogies between silver and our real lives seem endless! Like sterling, we human beings are highly reactive and sensitive to irritants. We get covered in decay; we lose our original luster; we develop a layer of dinginess to protect ourselves from our environment. And yet all the tarnish in the world cannot damage our beautiful insides. The metaphor continues: like silver, there is always hope, for all of us: with a little attention and elbow-grease, the tarnish can be polished right off. We can be restored! We can shine again, as brilliantly as we ever did! We live in hope. (Also, silver gets better and more gorgeous with age as it develops a prized golden sheen; don’t even get me started about the symbolism of wisdom and imperfect beauty in middle age . . . .) 

We will tuck something like this letter in with our dubious gift:

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Someday--in that distant future my husband and I see with our most optimistic eyes--these adopted heirlooms may grace the tables of our grown-up children. Perhaps as we break bread together we will feel forgiven for our parenting mistakes and adolescent rebellion. Maybe we will tell stories to the next generation: of crazy teenage antics and difficult family times, of epic arguments that now seem silly, of taking time to pause and reflect in order to survive the storms of adolescence. When our future grandchildren get poisoned by hormones and turn against their parents, maybe they will carry on the tradition of taking time out to polish the silver. With any luck, the values of maintenance and working with purpose—brought to life in our sons and their families—will be our greatest legacy.

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 As the holidays loom, we can all use a reminder of how important it is to force family fun with truculent adolescents. Read my post about it here.

You may also enjoy this post about the importance of time-outs for PARENTS!

And for a dose of schadenfreude as you strike family holiday poses, check out this botched attempt at my own family's picture-perfect moment. 

To book me for your parent, school or church group (words of wisdom and belly-laughs for frazzled families), contact me.

I'm Baaaaack . . . Shine On!

Several weeks ago I took a hiatus from writing about parenting. My own family life was challenging me so much I found it hard to make sense of anything. I thought it would be best to take a break from giving anything like advice to other parents.

Just a couple of weeks later, as we were maybe beginning to find a tiny bit of family balance--or at least a way to get through our days without being cruel to one another--something terrible happened. Something unbelievably sad and confusing. Something that took the winds right out of our sails. All of us: me, my husband, and our two teenaged sons. 

A young man for whom we cared died. He was a former student--one of those rare kids who keeps in touch with his high-school English teacher and finds a way into the hearts of her family and friends. Our boys called him the big brother they wish they had. I spent a good twelve hours thinking perhaps I could avoid telling my kids the unhappy truth, because forming the words seemed utterly impossible.

Of course we told them, and the complicated process of grieving a senseless death began. We know (intellectually) how valuable difficult times can be. We know this is an opportunity to learn lessons, to change our lives, to help our children face adversity and overcome. But it feels just awful.

On one hand, I know it's a chance to teach my children how to grieve--grace under pressure and all that. On the other hand, I'm a bloody mess. Trying to mitigate the extremes of my own emotions, while guiding my family through theirs, leaves me flat-out exhausted.

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There have been moments of grace, of course. The crazy world works like that, and I believe above all in the importance of finding silver linings in every cloud. But my God, it's hard to keep going. It's hard to put one foot in front of the other. It's impossible to understand. I keep thinking we must be talking about someone else, even though I attended the funeral and watched his casket sink into the earth.

I will write more about this child we have lost, because in many ways my time with him and his parents was the seed--six years ago--that blossomed into the Beyond Mama Bear project. For now, I shall again attempt to write about parenting. It will come in fits and starts (and I will devote July to getting the book to print), for which I hope you will forgive me. 

My message has been altered--in ways I will struggle with, I'm sure--but one thing is clear to me now more than ever: we need each other. Raising our children takes a village, all right, and it takes super-human strength and grit and tenacity. It takes forgiveness--of our children but most of all, of ourselves--and it will challenge everything we believe.

I hope you will join me. I'm asking everyone I know to subscribe to my email list, in the hopes of gathering some collective wisdom. This parenting-of-adolescents thing is a burden too great to shoulder alone. Together, we can find ways to really connect with our teenagers. We can share stories and insights, and I promise you, we can make a difference.

As always--in spite of things, in a broken world, in the valley of tears, against all odds, full of hope--we all shine on.

Song : Instant Karma! (We All Shine On) Album : Singles (Remastered 2010) John Lennon

We Come in Colors Everywhere (Sometimes, Teenagers Give Us Hope Just by Being Alive).

It's been a rough few weeks. 

You know hard days, when it's a bitch to put one foot in front of the other? Days when it's tough to focus on anything good? When death and destruction and struggle and strife just overwhelm us? 

On days like this, Springtime helps. The tiny miracle of new blossoms, warm sun on my shoulders, a small wet slug in a garden-bed: little happy things get me through hard days. I really, really believe there is goodness everywhere; on days like this, I keep my field of vision small and take comfort in every corner I can.

Yesterday, a bunch of young people in our neighborhood--including my son and a few friends of ours--celebrated the Indian HOLI Festival (re-scheduled twice due to weather). A celebration of happiness and love, of the power of good over evil. Of all the crazy colors in the world. It was a small miracle, too--an explosion of nameless joy and wild music and young people being alive.

Sometimes, that's all there is. It was a gift; I hope you watch the little slideshow I made and enjoy it, too.

Something Wicked This Way Comes (and it's a TEENAGER)

Raising teenagers is profoundly disorienting. Parents can get lost just as easily as our kids. In lieu of actual guideposts along our route, we look for signs to help us find our way. Help, advice, road-signs and perspective can come in many forms.

I was struck recently, for example, by the simplicity and wisdom of this bon mot. Thanks to cynical, bitter, post-modern anti-hero (and more-than-questionable parenting role model) Hank Moody for this most Shakespearean warning about his teenaged daughter. A label like this should  be affixed to every fourteen-year-old head out there. Because it's true.

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[Apologia: Listen, I'm an English teacher. Our need for stories is atavistic and ancient (didn't Aristotle, way back in the fourth century BC, call it "catharsis?"). At their best, stories reflect our lives back to us, give us a safe place to release emotions, and teach us about ourselves. Modern entertainment, at its best, gives us just such stories. The ubiquity of parents-struggling-with-teenagers in television programming reminds us just how real and awful that struggle is. And I take comfort there. Which is my way of rationalizing my tendency to watch way too much tv than I should. . . including stuff like this. :-) ~LLF]

When Teenagers Describe YOU, Do Not Listen.

I have recently discussed the merits of letting teenagers describe themselves and define their own roles in the world. I shall now point out the perils of letting them describe or define US.

Teenagers (due to no fault of their own) cannot be trusted to know their own minds. They are unsure and indecisive, but full of passionate conviction. They equivocate, waver, vacillate and throw ridiculous tantrums. Never, never let them draw you into their insanity. And no matter what you do, never trust anything they say about YOU.

I give you a fine example from my own beautiful life.

My very own teenagers describe me alternately--often on the same day--as BOTH of these instruments of the zeitgeist:

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To check out more on dear old Bev, go here. If you are unfamiliar with "Get Back," here you go. 

If you are perplexed--how could the same mother possibly fill both opposing roles?--join the club.

I AM both, of course--aren't we all?--over-zealous supporter AND the muscle who keeps them in line. But that's beside the point. Teenagers will say anything, to anybody, when they're frustrated or lost or caught in a power-struggle.

Let's all make ourselves a deal. Let's not listen to a single thing our progeny utters about us until they are about three months into their first year of parenting their own kid. If we HONOR their innate process of differentiating, defining and destroying, we'll see a different version of ourselves through their grown-up eyes. 

In THAT kid's eyes--the grown-up, responsible, family-starting kid we hope each of our children becomes--you're gonna like the way you look. I guarantee it. :-)

FAREWELL to Mama Bear, Part 2: Why Parents of Teens Need New Role Models

When our children were little, my friends and I cried "Mama Bear" to justify our slightly crazy parental instincts. We are all familiar with the archetype: the dad who leaps (without spilling his beer) to yank a toddler away from speeding cars. The mother's ability to hear, identify, and respond to a real cry of trouble three blocks away. The out-of-nowhere gumption it takes to yell at menacing big kids on the playground. Yes, we share Mama Bear's instincts to protect our brood.

I've got a real problem with this bear.

As I wrote here, however, parents need new role models as our children hit puberty. Mama Bear serves us well while our children are small, but she hibernates just when things get real.

Well, I have another issue with her example. (Poor, imaginary Mama Bear! What has she ever done to me?) Since I have become a parent of teenagers, in fact, I flat-out resent her. That bear is just so darned sure of herself.

In my experience--and according to the hundreds of parents I have observed and interviewed--one thing is certain: when teenagers live in your home, you rarely (if ever) feel sure of yourself. Even when things seem pretty good and the family is mostly getting along, it's a messy, muddled mind-trip.

Mama Bear is sure of herself; parents of teenagers are (usually) not.

It's easy to blame yourself when teenagers are difficult. It's hard to step back and gain any perspective. Gone are the days of protecting our children with atavistic aplomb, only to sink into our pillows each night, exhausted and frazzled, but sure of our role in the world.

With toddlers, the rules are clear, and pretty simple to enforce. Stove, hot! Street, dangerous! Dipping your cookie in the toilet? Not the best choice! 

We know what toddlers need to learn, and young children are interested in all of it. The alphabet, numbers, the names of things, how trees grow and why it rains and how to play the piano and clean up your mess and tie your shoes and use the toilet and tell a joke and eat with a fork.

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Once they become teenagers (and as I discuss here, teens are so very much like their former, toddler selves!), things are more complicated. The rules? They're difficult to negotiate amidst brave-new technology and old-school adolescent rebellion. Teenagers--because it is their job--tell elaborate lies, crawl out windows, test limits, and beg us in many other ways to question values we hold dear.

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It is unbelievably, unexpectedly bewildering to try and parent teenagers.

We need to teach adolescents a LOT, but they specifically don't want to hear it from US.  They are mercurial and confused. They are whirlwinds of angst, self-loathing and delusions of grandeur. They contradict themselves with wild passion. Engaging in conversation with teenagers often feels like an off-the-rails carnival ride.

Our children are almost-adults, smack in the midst of actualizing their unique personalities. We know how difficult they can be, but when we engage with them, we forget. We bite their crazy-bait and let them hurt our feelings. We almost never feel sure of ourselves. 

Clinging to certainty (or perfection) will doom us.

I recommend we let Mama Bear go as a role model because expecting perfection--or certainty, or family harmony, or knowing what the hell we are doing--makes everything so much worse.

Parents of teenagers need new role models because it's supposed to be hard. Raising a family is difficult and awful by design; raising people who can survive on their own and enjoy their adult lives is just an ugly, painful process. If we expect to know what we are doing--if we think we should feel sure of ourselves while raising teenagers--it's a million times harder.

We need to cut ourselves some slack.

Parents need new role models.  When we admit we rarely know what the hell we're doing, it's actually easier to keep going. Pretending everything's okay--and expecting it to be perfect--eventually exhausts us; all we can do is cover our eyes and hibernate.

My observations have taught me that parents do best to KNOW, PROTECT and HONOR their adolescent children. There is not one new role model for the likes of us; in fact, I have identified these ten. Every day, parents must find a balance, walk a fine line, and quick-change between many, many hats. It's exhausting, but--I promise!--our teenagers and our sanity are worth it in the long run.

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Leonard Cohen on those lines from "Anthem:" That is the background of the whole record, I mean if you have to come up with a philosophical ground, that is “Ring the bells that still can ring.” It’s no excuse… the dismal situation.. and the future is no excuse for an abdication of your own personal responsibilities towards yourself and your job and your love. “Ring the bells that still can ring”: they’re few and far between but you can find them. “Forget your perfect offering”, that is the hang-up, that you’re gonna work this thing out. Because we confuse this idea and we’ve forgotten the central myth of our culture which is the expulsion from the garden of Eden. This situation does not admit of solution or perfection. This is not the place where you make things perfect, neither in your marriage, nor in your work, nor anything, nor your love of God, nor your love of family or country. The thing is imperfect. And worse, there is a crack in everything that you can put together, physical objects, mental objects, constructions of any kind. But that’s where the light gets in, and that’s where the resurrection is and that’s where the return, that’s where the repentance is. It is with the confrontation, with the brokenness of things.
– from Diamonds in the Line

The Case of the Majestic 13-Year-Old: You Just Gotta Love Teenagers.

If you want a little dose of faith in the future, ask eighth graders to describe themselves. This advice is counter-intuitive, because as a rule, 13-year-old humans are a negative, sassy little bunch. But when I recently did just this, the results made my day.

I asked a class of adolescents how they want to be seen by others, how they might want to be remembered, and what they really value. In other words, they were listing positive attributes only. Still, I was pleasantly surprised.

(Here's why: imagine gazing upon a sea of young, adolescent faces. You and I might use some of these adjectives to describe them: awkward, anxious, scared, smelly, weird, pouty, aggressive, un-formed, confused. I know for a fact many of these kids feel pretty unsure of themselves, much of the time.)

Their inventory began as we might predict:

Nice. Kind. Funny. Awesome.

Nothing too deep, nothing too thoughtful. But with a little time, privacy and encouragement, thoughtful lists took shape, including these gems:

Fantastic. Helpful. Generous. Patient. Clever. Gorgeous. Intrepid (okay, I helped with that one). 

Strong. Faithful. Hilarious. Loyal. Creative. Clever. Wise. Friendly. Thoughtful. Majestic.

That's right -- majestic. A 13-year-old boy came up with that one, and he was proud of it. He knew it was kind of funny, but it also made perfect, real, logical sense to him. Deep down, he feels he is pretty majestic.

And he is, of course. They are; we all are. Majestic and noble and holy and teeming with potential and possibility. It is important, at the 13-year-old brink of adulthood (so much cynicism lies ahead!), to connect with the optimistic, hopeful, confident people living inside those gangly, pimply, emotional, hormonal teens. Do yourself a favor--if you live amongst such pubescent unpleasantness--and give them a chance to tell you what they like about themselves.

As I wrote about here, teenagers are full of hope, even when they try not to be. It is their job description, their birthright, and as much a part of their adolescent identity as the negativity and nastiness they cultivate so carefully. It's a tall order, parents--but when we help our teenagers tap into the things they like about themselves, they have a lot of great things to say (and they might accidentally notice the things they like about the rest of the world, too)!

carry on, parents of teens. some days, it's all you can do.

If you are a parent of a teenager and your life is carefree or void of struggle, say a little prayer for the rest of us. If your child meets curfew every night, makes sound choices about everything and always speaks respectfully to you, thank your lucky stars and forgive the rest of us our cosmic lament.

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I write, of course, for the more typical parent-of-teens, whose world feels upside-down, topsy-turvy, off-balance, and sometimes downright broken.

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Oh, dear parents! Hang in there. In moments of chaos and confusion, try to remember all things are temporary and this too shall pass. Try not to make rash decisions—or decisions of any kind—when you are in the throes of struggling with a teenager. Try instead to carry on.

It is unbelievably tempting to fall into despair. It can be difficult NOT to question every decision you've ever made, your life's purpose, and the merits of your own personality. Don't do it.

Instead: breathe deeply, listen to the beat of your own heart, remind yourself you are the grown-up, step away from the crazy . . . and carry on.

“If you’re lost and alone
Or you’re sinking like a stone
Carry on

May your past be the sound
of your feet upon the ground and
Carry on”

Some days—many days, in fact, whilst raising teenagers—it’s all we can do. One foot in front of the other. Carry on.

Below, a studio session of the talented young members of FUN, because these words sometimes get me through my day with adolescents. Maybe they’ll sound good to you, too:

5 Outrageous Lies Nicki Minaj Tells Teenagers (and Why It Matters)

Dear Nicki Minaj:

I don’t think you understand what you are doing. I think your brand purports to celebrate the female body. You position yourself as a strong, sassy woman, sure of herself and free to look—dress, speak, be—any damned way she pleases. I'll bet if we sat down and talked American History, you would be on the side of Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Gloria Steinem, Edith Bunker, Lily Tomlin. But you are young, and rich, and too successful for your own good, so maybe you have lost perspective.

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My dear, this “Anaconda” song of yours is an abomination. Even in a world where too much is cynically permitted and we all grow bitter, your video crosses a line. It sets us back—women and men—hundreds of years. I beg you to use your considerable power and talents to make better choices in the future.

I see you lately on the junket, a bit more modest, more demure, more covered. Keep it up. Meanwhile, because I care about you and all the young girls in your influence, let me explain to you exactly why “Anaconda” is a dangerous anachronism.

 

Five Outrageous Lies “Anaconda” Tells Teenaged Girls (and Why I Care):

 1. Hey Girls, Selling Your Bodies Can Be a Great Thing!

You introduce yourself as a woman kept—in the most literal sense—by a “big dope dealer.” Thus begins your trek back into the pre-suffrage Dark Ages of subordination. For many a generation, American women have recognized the inherent dignity of earning their own wages and maintaining identities separate from their men. How have you missed it? 

You excuse the criminal behavior of your charming male companions. You forgive as well their habit of drugging you into a stupor (“I’m high as hell . . . I’m on some dumb shit” and “‘cause he slung cocaine”). What a gal. Seems it’s all worth it because he “live in a castle” and keeps you “stylish,” which you insist is “real, real, real” (the repetition makes us wonder—are you trying to convince yourself?).

You offer your body in exchange for material goods (Alexander McQueen, Balmain, that Jag you pull up in). We thought we’d covered this. We, your elders, are stunned to be explaining it to you. Ignoring bad behavior in anyone, and letting yourself be bought, is a terrible, terrible thing.

 2. I am Confident, So My Body is a Sexual Playground!

As sure-of-yourself as you appear onstage, my dear girl, “Anaconda” betrays the truth. A woman who believes, “he can tell I ain’t missing no meals” has something to prove. We are not fooled; your defiant persona attempts to mask the deep, familiar insecurity that sends so many young women into so many strange and treacherous beds.

So he loves your “sex appeal,” despite your ample curves. Nicki, please. A wise friend told me years ago, “So he wants to fuck you. Big deal. He wants to fuck everybody.”

Ain’t it the truth? If some man tells you he prefers you to a super-model because you offer “something he can grab,” might he be saying whatever it takes to get you into bed? You’re better than that, and smarter. We all are.

“There is no quicker route to self-loathing than confusing your sex-appeal for power.”

Of course you are beautiful, just as you are. In every human body is some element of grace or beauty, something stunning and lovable and easily cherished by another. But feeling comfortable—and attractive—in your own skin is far different than using your sex-appeal to achieve some perceived sense of power or material gain (“I let him hit it ‘cause he slang cocaine”).

That “power” is a most predictable double-edged sword. It is never real power, of course, and it will cut you to your core, leaving you lost, broken and prone to making exponentially desperate decisions. There is no quicker route to self-loathing than confusing your sex-appeal for power; serial one-night-stands will confirm this truth to nearly everyone who’s ever been there. STDs and unwanted pregnancies further drive the point home.

3. I Can Be Reduced to One (or Two) Body Part(s)! 

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I tend to give most of us credit, here in the 21st century, for knowing the perils of objectifying anyone. When we dehumanize a person—or a part of a person, or a race of people, or a gender—it becomes infinitely easier to inflict violence.

I thought we knew this.

And yet: “Yeah, he love this fat ass / Yeah! This one is for my bitches with the fat ass in the fucking club / I said, ‘Where my fat-ass big bitches in the club?’”

Nicki, My Dear, imagine your impressionable, female audience. The young girl who looks up to you, because she sees you on the Ellen show and in SNL sketches gone viral. You tell her this: despite your background, sense of humor, education, intelligence, family, inherent gifts and astonishing material success, you are best remembered by your prodigious ass.

The genetic accident which must have caused you so much strife while you were growing up—we all have them: big thighs, thick eyebrows, unsightly moles, skinny forearms, nappy hair, excitable tempers, huge boobs—defines you. Don’t you see? It’s the opposite of what we want our daughters and sisters and nieces to believe about themselves.

“Shouldn’t strong, successful women of influence be resisting (rather than encouraging) the temptation to turn human beings into objects?”

You are so much more than how you look! Isn’t this the refrain we hail upon our middle-school girls as they struggle to define their awkward places in the world? You deserve to be respected and treated equally by men! I know for sure we tell them this. And while in the post-Feminist world we can wield our girlish wiles for commercial and personal gain, we know the difference. We know our real value, measured in honesty, dignity, passion, creativity, commitment, service, stewardship and kindness. In the end, we hope we are remembered more for such sentiments than, “Yeah, I got a big fat ass.”

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The media gives us constant images of women—and men, too—as body parts. Open a glossy magazine or watch a few Super Bowl ads and pay attention. If people are reduced to parts—to objects—it is infinitely easier to inflict violence on them.

Here at the end of 2014, I am surprised we don’t recognize the patterns of sexual violence. I am baffled by talk-show coverage of important men, their battered spouses and the victims of their abuse. Wide-eyed interviewers continue to ask questions I honestly thought we—all of us, more or less—had hashed out for several generations with some results. 

Shouldn’t strong, successful women of influence be resisting (rather than encouraging) the temptation to turn human beings into objects? Ms. Minaj, I urge you. Use the megaphone of the zeitgeist to make a change. Tell the world—all of us, including your young and impressionable admirers—your story. I believe in you, Girl, and I’ve got your back. You are so much more than your big, juicy butt.

 4. Other Women Are the Enemy!

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In the end, “Anaconda” is a booty-call to “my bitches with a fat ass in the fucking club.” Represent, you encourage them! Let it go! Free those ample curves and your sex-u-al-ity! But your self-expression takes a dark turn when you admonish “those skinny bitches in the club.” There is no room on the dance floor, it seems, for women who are different from you. This attitude, my friend, is perhaps most dangerous of all. 

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Of course Big Girls have the right and freedom to express themselves in public. So do Skinny Girls. We live in a glorious age of tolerance, where we can fly whatever flag we please. All girls can shake their groove thang: black, white or brown, tall or short, in five-inch stilettos or in wheelchairs, with glossy-straight locks or crazy curls, rich or poor, gay or straight or anywhere in between.

Why, then, the aggressive opposition to the Sisterhood? Our mothers and grandmothers learned long ago how vital it is to stick together. When we tear each other down, we re-visit centuries of division and subordination. When women celebrate all our shapes and sizes, gifts, imperfections, strengths and spirits, women change the world for the better. Join the party, Ms. Minaj! (Don't even get me started on "Stupid Hoe." I mean it: do not get me started.) 

If your lyrics are divisive, however, they pale in comparison to your video exploration of female relationships. "Anaconda" makes the wet dreams of every adolescent boy, ever, come true.  My dear, there is nothing original or shocking about your aggressively lesbian, fleshy, and pornographic visions of what women do together behind closed doors (or in the jungle, or at the gym . . . ). It has all been done before: the bondage couture, the wet and sultry glances, even the butt-drums. It ain't Sisterhood; it ain't relationship; it reduces women and their friendships to the stuff of predictable fantasy. 

Here, Natalie Merchant weighs in on the beauty of ALL women.

Even in this Brave New Century, women fight to be taken seriously--in the workplace, in politics, by their husbands and sons--and to trust their own, inherent dignity. "Anaconda" reduces female relationships to abject nastiness. The good news is, self-respecting adults see through your fog machine to the hollow soul of your song. The bad news is, those adolescent boys (and all their wet dreams) don't. 

 5. Original Thought Doesn’t Matter.

I take it back. This is the most dangerous message of all. From the first note you announce the derivative nature of your song, but here’s the thing: Sir Mix-a-Lot said it all. Celebration of the posterior begins and ends with his joyful anthem to the booty, and “Anaconda” adds nothing to the discourse.

Your song mutates the playful tone of “Baby Got Back” into something dark and fettish-y. You incorporate the most foul (and phallic) lyrics from the original and play them out against a backdrop of consciously clichéd images. Dark-jungle-tribal girls, half-naked, at your service. Whipped-cream pearl necklaces, bananas (read here about Nicki's pseudo-feminist take on the whole thing) coconut-milk ejaculate. Really? The litany of visual banality would be purely boring if it weren't also so painful to watch. 

But you see, Miss Nicki, I feel this way because I am a grown-up. I am old enough to know better (and so are you, by the way). My real problem with the ubiquity of your song is the age of your intended audience.  

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Teenagers accidentally happen upon your song. (Vevo pops it up in ad-form; twelve-year-old boys share gifs of your outrageous twerking; the video was an Xfinity On-Demand "top feature" for one illustrious week.) They are rightly intrigued. Because they are young and ignorant, they are shocked. Their imaginations are ignited, to be sure. But you fan that flame as violently as as a hard-core porn video. For generations, Herb Alpert's scandalous album cover has left something to the imaginations of pre-teened music lovers. Even the requisite, adolescent ogling of a purloined copy of Playboy reveals less than the aggressive camera angles in "Anaconda."  As 13-year-olds discover the similarities between bananas and penises, I like it better when they snicker and giggle. When their minds are thrown open, instead, to the darkest recesses of gender politics, I worry about their ability to handle it. I worry about the messages you so overtly send about women--and men, and drugs and money and violence--because your medium is so intoxicating to the young minds being formed by the music they listen to and the images they witness.

The Nicki Minaj brand produces, packages and promotes with young people in mind. Perhaps only an audience with limited education and life experience will tune in; the rest of us (after the initial fascination of so much butt-jggling wears off) see the truth behind the leather bodysuit. "Anaconda" is a formulaic sham, a fraud, pastiche, counterfeit, not smart enough to be a parody, not brave enough for satire. And that's too bad, Miss Thing, because with so many young people watching, you are missing an enormous opportunity.

If you decide to use your powers for Good rather than Evil, what might you do? What messages--if you really think about the young girls and boys who love you--might you send? 

I urge you to think about it, Ms. Minaj. I beg you to see the harm your perpetuate with your song, your video and your public persona. You have the right to be whomever you please--and to make your money however you can--but I suspect the younger generation is smart enough to support a better product (with a better message). Give them a chance. Trust your audience and yourself enough to contemplate your real worth as a woman and a human being. Then write songs about that.