Originally posted on FB, 5 May 2019
• Written by Lesa Quale Ferguson•

I used to believe that your likes and dislikes defined you as much as how you looked or acted. Good taste was more appealing than a little black dress bought at Sax. Discernment enticed.

When I was interested in a boy, I lied. I tried to like Blade Runner more than I did because all the guys I liked liked it. What appealed to men about women baffled me. If I had understood, I would have known that a Pauline Kael-worthy review of Blade Runner wouldn’t make any guy want to kiss me. Most guys I knew didn’t even know who Pauline Kael was, and the ones who did were generally older men who kept New Yorkers in their bathrooms for reading material. As for them, why were they in there long enough to read a whole New Yorker article? The boys I wanted wanted to be cool, not date a chick trying to out-cool them. But hell, the ones that might have liked me back were too old for me and stuck on the toilet.

I lied to even my intelligent friends about music, partially because I was struck dumb by it. Blade Runner, I could review from both sides of my mouth; I knew nothing about music. Other than the recorder in fifth grade and the flute in sixth, I never studied it. In conversations, I let the seemingly most erudite taste take the lead. Then I nodded like a bauble head and hoped that someone would change the subject back to Blade Runner (at least my lies were cogent). In the 90s, I lived in Seattle. So many guys I knew were gnashing their teeth over Nirvana vs. Pearl Jam. My schmoozing over such a bizarrely byzantine argument, my ditzy nodding threatened to give way to ligamentous laxity.

Back then, boys would comb through each other records and CD collections like Indiana Jones in search of the Ark but then offer a cursory glance at a girl’s stack with enough smirk to let her know how superficial her cut was. But who needed deep cuts when music in public spaces was ubiquitous? Radios and stereos played through the windows of cars or an open bedroom window. You could dance in the streets.

Music wasn’t threaded into earbuds then. People carried their boomboxes on their shoulders like firewood in search of a spark, and even our walkmans produced ambient sound. My reputation for discernment would never weather the likes of my Top 40 sentimentality. In this culture, I didn’t have to admit them. I could sway to Sentimental Lady as I slow danced with a sweaty boy at the skating rink, walk across a field of dorms to Lionel Ritchie crooning Hello, follow behind a car slowly cruising to One More Night, or dial in Dreams on a transistor radio.

Now that I am middle-aged, I guess that I can finally admit I liked Elton John a lot, especially Don’t Go Breaking My Heart, so much so I wondered if I introduce myself as Kiki.

It feels good not to worry about the vagaries of what is and is not cool, especially now that I can make up my playlist—smirk-free.