In her latest novel, Girl Before a Mirror, Liza Palmer puts a recently divorced ad exec in charge of a competition involving seven sexy male cover models. But it's a British financial consultant who really challenges Anna's self-imposed dating sabbatical. Palmer, who earned two Emmy nominations for her work on VH1's "Pop-Up Video," is known for writing thought-provoking love stories that take unpredictable turns. In this guest post, she talks about how she learned to own up to loving what she loves—no matter what "they" think.
By Liza Palmer
Growing up, I’d been pop culturally feral. No television until my 20s, no money in the oft-empty coffers to see movies, the only music we had was the 101 Dalmatians book on record and the Annie soundtrack. And while my mom had her fancy college books, I wasn’t truly swept away by a book until I read The Color Purple in high school.
Combine this with a circle of friends that were about as with it as I was and you’ve got a childhood far removed from the fandoms and peer pressure that usually mold us whether we like it or not. So, when I liked a thing, I just got to like it. And when I loved a thing, I got to love with it my everything. The Twilight Bark can still bring me to tears, and don’t even get me started on making something shine like the top of the Chrysler building.
And then it happens. Maybe you announce—HYPOTHETICALLY, OF COURSE—that your favorite song is “Celebration” by Kool and the Gang and it’s met with snickering and some side eye. Maybe you proudly tell your friends that you bought that new Oakridge Boys tune and . . . maybe you hum a few bars of “Elvira” and learn that not everyone is as big a fan of multi-harmony genius as you are. And because being different in junior high was second only to death, I adapted. But, what started as me adapting came very close to ending with me disappearing.
If I liked a thing, I learned whether it was something I could like out loud or in secret. These were the books I could proudly display, and these were the ones I read when no one was around. These were the songs I put on mixes and these were the songs I told people I listened to “at the gym.” These were the movies I tweeted about and these were the movies I told people I liked “ironically.”
The me that loved things with all my heart got eroded away until I didn’t even remember what loving things purely felt like anymore. And although it feels slightly melodramatic, once I’d been corrupted it was much easier to then join the ranks of those who made fun of people who had the audacity to love the things that made them happy out loud, no matter the protest.
We are told that these *points to a very high shelf full of fancy things* are IMPORTANT. And if we don’t like these fancy things then we ourselves are not important. If we say we didn’t like it, we are told we didn’t “get it.” If we enjoy something They feel is pedestrian, then we become the reason our civilization is crumbling.
But then, the voice of reason came crackling through the darkness. And, as is usually the way in my life, the voice of reason was Joshua from WarGames.
“A strange game. The only winning move is not to play. How about a nice game of chess?”
The only winning move is not to play—whether we’re talking about Global Thermonuclear war or being true to oneself. I am valuable not because of the things I like, but because of the person I am. I am more than an algorithm. We deserve more than a brooding barista who only likes us because he thinks we like jazz. It’s time to recapture that same little kid sprawled out on our bedroom floors surrounded by an explosion of the things that made us happy.
We get to say what is important. And if something makes you happy, then it’s important. And guys. The Oakridge Boys are a really good band.