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Every time I write about something that is not the Manchester bombing, I feel my throat go a little dry and my stomach drop, as if it’s all I should be permitted to think about. It’s all many of us can think about. The Manchester bombing was not just another attack; it was an assault on the jittery excitement of girls experiencing the magic and community of their first concert. It was an attack that singled out a safe, beautiful space carved out for women and the LGBTQ community. It was an attack on innocence, on friendship, on mothers and daughters, on screaming along to the words of your favorite song after finally, finally saving up enough money to go.
I remember going to the Jingle Ball in December when I was twelve, I remember wearing a Santa hat and feeling so excited about how close I was in proximity to Rihanna, I remember my friends and I couldn’t stop smiling at how free, how buoyant we felt, I remember spending $45 on a single t-shirt and wearing it to bed that night to preserve the memory forever.
I can’t stop thinking about it, and yet I must. I must remember there is some good in this world. And so, if any of you find yourselves similarly shattered, here is a distraction.
You’re allowed to laugh. I give you permission.
