Why Susan Boyle Makes Us Cry
. . . What are we all crying about? What is it about this woman that touches us so deeply?
Partly, I think it's the age thing, the fact that a woman closing in on 50 had the courage to compete with the kids -- and blew them out of the water. "Women of a certain age" should be forgiven for finding vicarious satisfaction in Susan's victory. In plain words, it's an up-yours to the cocky youth culture that often writes us off.
Then, too, we were weeping for the years of wasted talent, the career that wasn't, the time lost -- both for Susan Boyle and two generations of her putative fans. If someone with a voice like Julie Andrews' spent decades in a sea of frustration and obscurity, how many other women (and men) must be out there becalmed in the same boat? I believe we were crying for them and for whatever unrealized, yet-to-be-expressed talent may lie within ourselves.
But I'd wager that most of our joyful tears were fueled by the moral implicit in Susan's fairy-tale performance: "You can't tell a book by its cover." For such extraordinary artistry to emerge from a woman that's plain-spoken, unglamorous, and unyoung was an intoxicating reminder of the wisdom in that corny old cliché. The three judges and virtually all those who watched Susan Boyle in the theater (and probably on YouTube as well) were initially blinded by entrenched stereotypes of age, class, gender, and Western beauty standards, until her book was opened and everyone saw what was inside . . .
Partly, I think it's the age thing, the fact that a woman closing in on 50 had the courage to compete with the kids -- and blew them out of the water. "Women of a certain age" should be forgiven for finding vicarious satisfaction in Susan's victory. In plain words, it's an up-yours to the cocky youth culture that often writes us off.
Then, too, we were weeping for the years of wasted talent, the career that wasn't, the time lost -- both for Susan Boyle and two generations of her putative fans. If someone with a voice like Julie Andrews' spent decades in a sea of frustration and obscurity, how many other women (and men) must be out there becalmed in the same boat? I believe we were crying for them and for whatever unrealized, yet-to-be-expressed talent may lie within ourselves.
But I'd wager that most of our joyful tears were fueled by the moral implicit in Susan's fairy-tale performance: "You can't tell a book by its cover." For such extraordinary artistry to emerge from a woman that's plain-spoken, unglamorous, and unyoung was an intoxicating reminder of the wisdom in that corny old cliché. The three judges and virtually all those who watched Susan Boyle in the theater (and probably on YouTube as well) were initially blinded by entrenched stereotypes of age, class, gender, and Western beauty standards, until her book was opened and everyone saw what was inside . . .
Ms. Pogrebin's essay in its entirety, here:
~~~~~~~~~~~Correction Objection~~~~~~~~~~~
lOVe. It IS hard to recognize when it shows its face -- especially in these days we live in. We live with bombs, wars, and cynicistic apathy born of boring, fake rhetoric; lies muddled up in dark bogs made whole by bogus men of greed. When in an age where "love" is only translated into XXX sex and botox bodies why WOULD WE recognize it when it truly, finally arrives??? You ask why do we cry??? I ask why do we deny. Stereotyping this woman? You betcha. But there is more to-it than just your everyday, run-of-the-mill stereotyping.
Think for just a minute about Ms. Boyle's very song choice:
I dreamed a dream in time gone by
When hope was high,
And life worth living
I dreamed that love would never die
I dreamed that
God would be forgiving.
Then I was young and unafraid
When dreams were made and used,
And wasted
There was no ransom to be paid
No song unsung,
No wine untasted.
But the tigers come at night
With their voices soft as thunder
As they tear your hopes apart
As they turn your dreams to shame.
And still I dream he'll come to me
And we will live our lives together
But there are dreams that cannot be
And there are storms
We cannot weather...
I had a dream my life would be
So different from this hell I'm living
So different now from what it seems
Now life has killed
The dream I dreamed.
~~~~~~~~~~~Translation~~~~~~~~~~~~
lament for love . . .
Ms. Boyle? Do not let anyone steal your "priceless" passion -- your natural love, which is so evident in the very unique TONE (and cry) of your voice. Your kind of sound is the sound of "love" and has not featured on the view-screens of this world for a very, very long time . . .
It has been SO long forgot . . . the SOUND of "love".
Ms. Boyle? You are a heartbreaker. You break our hearts, as we sit here doing our double-takes, as that first glimmer of YOUR VOICE breaks free - - THE VOICE -- telling us, reminding us "love" is SO lost -- hopes and dreams for "love" ripped apart. Yet: "YES, YES, YES", (did I hear that right?) a thousand times YES! You are "love" in every syllable you sing:
The faintest emphasis in the squint of your eye, -- a type of prayer -- when you say: "life has killed the dream, I dreamed". Or the crying in your voice coming through, as you say, "I had a dream my life would be so different from this hell I'm living".
Some can very well say I exaggerate? I say they don't know "love" when they see it, or hear it soar in the sky. That is what I say.
~~~~~~~~~Translation~~~~~~~~~
April 19, 1995: The date of the Oklahoma City bombing of the Murrah Federal building is fast approaching. This is a time period when all get a little panicky, worrying about the extremist, white supremacist militias who STILL carry guns, shouting paranoidal rants . . . and NOW? waving their new symbol -- tea bags? against Obama Taxes? So George Bush never existed?!! You guys don't scare sane people anymore. Fine. Wave and wrestle with your flailing-abouts and your infamous troubles with facts/history. This is your last hurrah, boys! The good people have spoken. And they will march right over you on their way to hopes and, yes, dreams . . . Get the hell out of the way! Your lies and bouts of amnesia don't play here anymore. The "twisted" president - your has-been president - doesn't live here. Never did.
Ms. Susan Boyle? Hey! "Come back here." Wake us up again, and again, and again with your VOICE. Close your eyes, babe. Ignore the blithering idiots of the world. "Love" never died -- it still lives in your very unique artistry -- that is YOU -- "love" lives in you . . . fight for it. Hold it close. To you.
And so . . . to re-cap (remember?) the JUDGE asks:
"Okay. What's the "dream"?
"I'm trying to be a professional singer."
"And why hasn't it worked out so far, Susan?"
"Never been given the chance before, but here's hoping that'll change."
"Whadya going to sing tonight?"
"I'm going to sing, I Dreamed a Dream, from Le Miserables.
"Think so?" (disbelieving chuckle) (shakes head in disbelief)
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Ridiculous Thoughts
