What Would You Do?
As we get older, we miss fewer queues and begin to pick up nuance. We read between the lines to uncover things like sarcasm and undertone—gleaning that our Mom, despite offering a smile, thinks Nancy’s a total bitch.
With finer tuned observations, we become less reactionary and more self-aware. We stop throwing tantrums for being denied a cookie, and no longer flail without inhibition to the classic rock songs that kids like too much, that in turn, any respectable adult must willfully surrender (e.g. ACDC’s, “You Shook Me All Night Long” or The Proclaimers, “500 Miles”).
We gamble less to avoid bomb detonations, and begin to pile up little sandbags to prevent the overflowing of emotion. We edit, read the room, and essentially, stop acting like feral warthogs in captivity.
It’s the beginning of us giving a fuck.
However, our growing inhibition does not prevent us from making a fool of ourselves. Au contraire, mon frère.
We still jump into the splits at our grandparent’s 50th wedding anniversary, solemnly read poetry at the dinner table, and pump our crotch on hot tub jets at family parties.
The only difference: instead of being totally oblivious to missing the mark, we’ve begun to feel the icy winds of social disapproval.
As someone who was born shameless, it wasn’t until my double digit years that I experienced the onset of embarrassment. Embarrassment, a key byproduct of giving a fuck, also coincided with the year I got braces which I colour-coordinated to every holiday—orange and black for Halloween, red and green for Christmas, and baby pink for gymnasium music video dances.
On top of tinsel teeth, I was experimenting heavily with plaid pants and polo tees that traced my convex pot-gutty. I sported thick-toothed headbands—the kinds that carve white triangle shapes into the hairline—and a black cord necklace with a dolphin charm.
Regrettably, I‘ve always had a thing for slip-on, velcro footwear.
Note: My penchant for Dr. Scholl's, or frankly, any shoe that would adorn the feet of the wheelchair bound is a confliction that I still face every single day.
All photos taken of me around this time indicate that I looked oddly middle-aged. I had the complete vibe of a perimenopausal bookkeeper who just surprised her Sip n’ Stitch circle with adult braces.
Despite an aesthetic that suggested, “I make my own pickles and preserves”, I was still young enough to unknowingly walk into horrifying moments that real adults could make fun of.
My earnest actions, despite trying to reel it in in order to maintain a small circle of friends, made for Mom-to-Mom fodder.
Enter: hip hop trio, City High.
City High’s 2000 hit, What Would You Do?, described as “a motivational anthem for single parents dealing with poverty and mothers forced into prostitution” had struck something within my 10 year-old self.
Armed with printed AZlyrics, I sang What Would You Do? everywhere I went. With close-eyed passion, I practiced at home, at recess, and on-the-go with the dedication of a Canadian Idol reject.
Then, as fate would have it, while driving to my annual elementary school’s BBQ—a real who’s who event with hot dogs and co-ed Red Rover—it came on the radio.
My time had come to properly introduce, What Would You Do? to my entire family.
Of course, I’d be taking on the parts of both the morally-superior party goer and Loni, single mother forced into sex work to provide for her son.
To get into the zone, I started head-tapping with the intro music.
Then, I began to rap from the backseat of the car:
Boys and girls wanna hear a true story?
Saturday night I was at this real wild party—
They had the liquor overflowing the cup,
About five or six strippers trying to work for a buck.
Then I took one girl outside with me—
Her name was Loni, she went to junior high with me.
Said why you up there dancing for cash?
I guess a whole lot has changed since I seen you last.
Excitedly, I braced myself to transition to Loni, where I’d get to showcase my budding range.
I closed my eyes and belted out:
What would you do if your son was at home,
Crying all alone on the bedroom floor,
'Cause he's hungry,
And the only way to feed him is to
Sleep with a man for a little bit of money?
And his daddy’s gone,
Somewhere smokin’ rock now,
In and out of lock-down,
I ain't got a job now.
So for you this is just a good time—
But for me this is what I call life.
Mmm
I huffed quickly to catch my breath. From my backseat perch, I swivelled around to gauge the family’s reaction. My sister stared ahead blankly, and I couldn’t get a read on my Mom or Dad.
Admittedly, I’d lost pace on a few parts of the rap but overall the execution was there.
While I had a captive audience, I took the opportunity to clarify a few details of the storyline.
I asked my Mom what “rock” and “lockdown” meant.
She replied with ”drugs you smoke” and “jail”.
We drove on in silence.
At the BBQ, I was buzzing from a can of Orange Crush and my performance, obvs. Riding high, I ripped around the corner from the school portables, Tasmanian devilling my way onto the lawn. There, I spotted my Mom from a near distance, centred around a collection of other Moms.
She was animated and expressive. It looked like she was engaged in some storytelling of her own!
Then, I heard her mention my name.
On high alert, I tuned in to make out some very familiar words, “What would you do if your son was at home…somewhere smokin' rock now, in and out of lock down.”
Like a reverse stage Mom, I was hanging onto every beat. Sure, she’d forgotten a few lines, but she really had them.
I couldn’t help but think, was this the start of some mother-daughter magic? A lifetime of matching tracksuits and her-and-her braided cornrows (not just while vacationing in Cancun)?
We could write our own deeply personal raps about life on the dairy farm or getting braces tightened, and take this thing on the road! We’d start small with a string of performances at rural talent shows, then duet across the Greater Toronto Area and Golden Horseshoe.
Hell, we could take on all of Ontario!
Plus, the maturity of her voice really lended substance to the self-righteous rapping character.
Then, I noticed her upper body jostling.
There were light convulsions.
Was she crying? Brought to tears by the same art piece that had spoken so deeply to her daughter? A bunch of the other Moms appeared quite emotional as well.
I looked on.
Suddenly, a hot tidal wave washed over me. My Mom wasn’t crying at all—none of them were. My Mom and her gaggle of geese were laughing. They were laughing at me. At my song!
Feelings of too much exposure vibrated throughout. I felt ashamed. Dirty. Used.
Like Loni, my vulnerability had been taken advantage of for someone else’s pleasure.
Quickly, I purchased a one-way ticket on Megabus travelling their standard 38 kilometres an hour. Only this time, we weren’t going to the Big Apple, we were headed straight for the earth’s core. As I descended, the cracked polyester seat dug into my upper thigh. I gazed out the window and reflected. How could I have missed the queue? How could I have revealed so much?
With my Mom’s rendition echoing in my head, I harmonized and gestured softly.
All the while, I knew that from this moment on, I’d have to take on the impossible task of acting indifferent to What Would You Do?.
There were now parts of myself that I knew to hide in order to protect.
As we transition out of youth’s carefree living, we withhold parts of ourselves to save face and fit in.
Only after we decide to reclaim all of who we are, no matter the cost, can we return to close-eyed singing from the soul. And when we do, we’ll know exactly what our words mean.
Fucks given: limited.
A defining moment. 🕺🏻