Dance Moms. Dance Moms, Dance Moms,
Dance Moms. Two words. Two syllables. Nine letters. Never have so few words
read like a Greek tragedy. Homer’s epic poems could not capture the travesty,
misery, horror, and devastation this show creates for me. When I hear this demon’s
name, my skin crawls, my palms sweat, and a terrifying shiver runs down my
spine, while I try to make sense of this abomination only seen in night
terrors. It is the worst of humanity wrapped in a thick layer of suburban fat
and a dense southern accent.
While many have already written and
discussed this show, I was fortunate enough to avoid searing my retinas for the
past three years. To my great displeasure, that peaceful time in my life,
before I knew Dance Moms, is over. I am now 10 percent dumber and emotionally
scarred. I am here to admit that, I, Katie Foster, am addicted to absolutely
atrocious, shitty reality TV, but this show is different – it got under my skin
like no other horrible TV show has before.
The story begins with the only way
any sane person should happen upon this appalling train wreck: completely
plastered. The events surrounding this experience are a blur; all I remember is
sitting down, thinking, “What the hell? I’ve never seen this before,” and
proceeding to hold back the nausea building in my system.
There are so many repulsive aspects
to focus on with this show: the horrific parenting, the mammoth that verbally assaults
little girls, what kind of people these poor children will turn into because of
their experiences, but the one thing that stood out above all else, and on which
I choose to focus, are the final-stage routines pre-pubescent girls were executing.
It honestly felt like I was watching borderline child porn. (God forbid a woman
show a breast, but a toddler in lingerie, thrusting her hips and shimmying, is
perfectly fine for television.)
The same phrase kept repeating over
and over again while my brain was molested by the horrors on my TV screen,
“These little girls have no idea what they are doing with their bodies! How the
hell are you going to teach someone to dry hump on stage when they’ve never
experienced it in a bedroom?!” I felt the need to scrub my brain with steel
wool when I thought about all the pedophiles who must masturbate to this show.
(Excuse me; I have to go take another shower after typing that sentence.)
How the fucking fuck could any
semi-decent human being, not only think this was a good idea, but also
encourage this kind of behavior. These girls are great at what they do and are
only doing as their seemingly Nazi-inspired instructor says. All the distaste I
have lies squarely on every adult who chooses to subject children to this
borderline abuse. Parents, instructors, judges – they all have a part in this.
There is a collective emotional whirlwind of shame, repulsion, and rage when I
think about the fact that this group of people is: a) allowed to vote, and b)
contributing to raising the next generation. But the thing that makes me feel
physically ill is that there is a large enough audience to keep this on the
air. Part of America is actually seeking out this kind of “entertainment.”
The question I have to this entire
country is, WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH US?!? Whether you watch the show or
not, how could an entire nation be content enough to allow this kind of
programming to run for as long as it has? It makes me feel that we all need to
re-examine what we consider an enjoyable way to spend our free time.
Watching 10 minutes of Dance Moms
warped my entire opinion of reality TV. Every reality show I watch now makes me
feel a little more foolish and shameful, because it was a building process to
Dance Moms. America had to be desensitized to obscene behavior before they
accepted watching children go through it. Every time someone watches a spoiled
housewife throw a drunken temper tantrum, or a group of 20-somethings have an
orgy, it is one step closer to some sleazy producer saying, “How can we push
the boundaries again?” I blame every individual who watches reality television
for the creation and success of shows like Dance Moms. I think it’s time we go
back to the days where chocolate was considered a guilty pleasure, instead of watching
children grind a stage.
“Alcohol is the anesthesia by which we endure the operation of
life.”
― George
Bernard Shaw
No comments:
Post a Comment