Rebecca Handler

My mother went to the hospital for a broken hip and stayed for Covid. She is currently in a state of delirium which, according to numerous websites, is not a precursor to dementia nor “a senior moment.” It could be a response to physical pain, a drastic change in environment, a new medication. It could be temporary. No one knows. 

She is talking about a group of well-dressed Mexican men. They are very well-dressed, Rebecca. 

The man in the royal blue scrubs asks me if I’m her daughter. Is she always like this?

No. 

She asks me for a top. A top to what, Mom? A top to wear, Rebecca. She rolls her eyes. 

She is slightly slumped over in bed, preoccupied with organizing an imaginary event. There’s so much to do. So many things to do. Twelve people are at her house and some of them are messy. What will I feed them, Rebecca? What do you want to feed them, Mom? Frankly I just wish they’d go away. They’re leaving soon, Mom. 

Her wrinkled bruised hands move gracefully through the air. Take this for me, she says, handing me nothing. Do you have it, she asks sharply? Yes, Mom. I’ve got it.

The goal is to get her home where people can visit her without filling out forms and getting their temperature taken. Maybe she can get her dog back. In the meantime, she is in a rehabilitation facility in a creaky bed with a view of City College of San Francisco. 

When my mom was a dean at City College, she often had days of back-to-back meetings with cranky administrators and stressed-out students. Once her secretary stabbed someone with a butter knife so she had to deal with that. There might have been a day when she finally got to close her office door to call me and tell me to preheat the oven because she was coming home. And maybe, as she put on her coat, she paused to look out the window. Maybe she could see where she is now.

“Are there any rich guys in the crowd who want to buy me shit?”

Popstar Kim Petras is talking to the audience between songs. She is wearing a black leather miniskirt and an off-the-shoulder gold top. The sunlight is reflecting off her long blond extensions and her white teeth are sparkling. Her backup dancers are dressed for a Sexy Mad Max party. She stomps across the stage and blows kisses to the tall person in the Lucille Ball wig in the front row who is pushed up against the metal railing. 

“It’s a really hard time in the world,” she adds. “Especially for trans girls.” The crowd hollers in solidarity. One tall man next to me in a maroon t-shirt wipes his eyes as Kim launches into her next song, Hillside Boys. I start jumping up and down to the beat. I quickly memorize the chorus, “Hillside Boys you call my name. You make my heart sparkle like champagne.” I pretend I’ve been listening to Kim Petras for years, when in fact I only learned of her a few days ago, in preparation for this weekend. 

I am at Outside Lands, an annual music festival in Golden Gate Park. I am forty-eight which means I paid extra for shade seating and access to upscale porta potties. I am wearing practical sneakers, sunscreen, and a neon fanny pack containing lip balm, Advil, and Band-Aids. Eighty-thousand people are here. There are various stages and dozens of vendors selling acai bowls and dried flower crowns. When I eat my Korean loaded waffle fries at a picnic table across from the Monster Energy Drink booth, I overhear a girl in crocheted pants say to her friend, “Matthew is the king of going to music festivals for the music.” 

Like Matthew, I go for the music. I also love the people-watching and the overhearing of comments like, “Oh my god your parasol is everything.” When Pussy Riot plays the Ukrainian national anthem, a dad with his toddler on his shoulders turns to me and says, “These girls are amazing.” He hadn’t heard of Pussy Riot until his Russian coworker suggested he “go pay tribute.”

Pussy Riot is amazing. Apparently so is Wet Leg, the band my husband is seeing on the other side of the park. He texts, this show is incredible. Thank god women can now lead bands. I know what he means. It is no longer unusual to see female-led acts, or in the case of Pussy Riot and Wet Leg, all female bands. I text him back, First bands, next the country.

Later, swaying back and forth during Mitzki’s set, I am transfixed. She sings about the strange discomfort happiness can bring when you are conditioned to constantly wait for bad things to happen. And her dancing is more like theater. At one point she death-stares the audience and then mimics slowly slicing her neck with the microphone. Between songs, I can hear Post Malone across the park screaming, “I fucking love San Francisco.” I whisper into my friend Sarah’s ear, “The patriarchy is always in the background.” 

Most women I know feel like we have a lot to be angry about. When Phoebe Bridgers leans into the mic and says, “The world is burning,” thousands of high-pitched “Yeahs” travel across the grassy field like an electric current. 

Kim Petras is right. It is a really hard time in the world. Music won’t save us. We will save us. And when we do, music will be blasting.