As I was watching a series that marked my childhood about a bright young girl in a small american town, I remembered where so many feelings of revolt and frustration have come from for me and so many others.
We were sold the story. Small bright young girls, dreaming of adventure and glory. Eager, passionate. Waiting. Waiting for Marlon Brando to stop for a coffee in a motorcycle. Waiting for the sweet and tender alien hunted down by government to take us on a world of dangerous adventures. Waiting for Danny to show us what summer rommance was all about, for Cry-Baby Walker to make us into bad girls or for some handsome stranger to teach us how to dance. Waiting to find out around the corner, by accident, or destinies.
And we waited, and we waited. And no one came around. And we realised we were sold into a cruel myth that kept us wasting our lives away for a man that would never come, for a life we would never have.
Some of us still had it in them to get up. And we went away. We bought the motorcycle and rode it ourselves, and we got what we wanted in life with a bit more hardship than predicted. We hitched-hicked West, we flew North or we took the bus South, and left our small little towns where american highschools failed to materialise and no leather-jacket ever showed up. And we are glad we did. We are proud of ourselves.
But once in a while, the little girls in us still feel the pain of being left behind, the betrayal of having been tricked into allienation. We feel revolt and an immense sadness, now rationalized and overcome, but still there.
These are some songs for us. For all the forgotten girls.
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