By Kimberly Ripley
When I was a teenager "corn" was
something we ate on the cob with butter, some salt,
and a little pepper. Worse case scenario was when it
came from a can... creamed!
A new definition for the word is
found in the vocabulary of a unique generation of
teens. Spelled with a backward "K", it is the name
of a band held in high esteem for their raunchy
lyrics and intriguing style. Its members are adorned
with more facial piercings than a pin cushion.
A few years ago when parental
warnings were issued via little stickers on the
outside of CD's and cassettes, I had a very frank
discussion with my kids. Concerning the bad
language. I am not a prude, however I consider it
unnecessary and improper in most situations. My deal
was a fair one: They could play it as long as I
didn't have to listen to it, and it was absolutely
taboo around the two youngest siblings.
Then we discussed those lyrics I
considered off limits. Degradation of women and
minorities is not tolerated in our home. (Actually
degradation of any sort. These two groups seem to be
targeted most often.) Nor is violence. I threatened
to confiscate the offensive tunes if I caught wind
of them playing in the house.
So they played them in the car. My
car. When my first-born got a license and borrowed
my car I witnessed the vile lyrics as he drove into
our church parking lot one warm Sunday morning. The
windows were down, the bass was booming, and
wrinkled white-haired ladies nearly dropped their
false teeth as their mouths hung wide open.
They shook their heads in disgust
as they passed me sitting in a pew.
I understand their dismay. They
seem to forget that the world has changed
drastically since they raised their children. Our
kids have many more obstacles and temptations thrown
in their face every day.
For the most part our agreement
worked. In six years I've confiscated and thrown
away only one CD. We reached a compromise regarding
the car stereo. I agreed to remain mute on the issue
provided the songs were played in their cars instead
of mine, and the volume became such that the lyrics
were not discernable when they drove through our
neighborhood. Under no circumstances were they to
play them near church.
A few weeks ago I had a good
chuckle at a get together in our church hall. About
once every other month a group of our elderly
members join our Sunday School kids for a social
hour. The aim is to forge communication between the
generations.
They opened the meeting with a
question and answer session.
"What kind of music do you listen
to?" an elderly man asked of the teens.
"Marilyn Manson," was one answer.
"Korn," was an obvious reply.
Loud whispers erupted from the
seniors and it became obvious they were quite hard
of hearing.
"Marilyn Monroe?" one asked.
"She's dead," another added.
"I thought they were talking about
musicians," a lady voiced her confusion.
"They are, Myrtle," her husband
answered.
"Now, Fred, they most certainly
are not. That boy told us his favorite vegetable!"
It was decided they were better
off not knowing the whole story.
About the Author: Kimberly
Ripley: I am a wife and mother of five children. I
love to travel, and this passion combined with my
family's numerous escapades has provided ample
fodder for my fiction and nonfiction endeavors. |
