I Burned The Monkees

"It's officially spring!" Mom said.

I rolled my eyes. I was wearing a disaster of an Easter dress with perfect white shoes complete with Buster Brown shoe polish, above which grew a pair of pale legs swollen with bug bites.

"Yes, I know," I said, rubbing my eyes from the pollen and from an allergy to the cake I had snuck into the bathroom for breakfast.

It was Easter Sunday. I was thrilled with my jelly beans. But was still steaming mad from the weekend before.

From the church pulpit the prior Sunday morning, the preacher warned us of hell. Hell, hell, hell was all he ever preached about. I was so scared of going to hell that it kept me up at night, scribbling in my Bible with my special highlighter pen--mostly focused on the book of Revelation.

The preacher this particularly Sunday announced that instead of the regular evening service that week, we would have a bonfire.

I was stoked. "A bonfire!" I looked around for my best friend, Jessica, hoping she would share in my joy.

I saw her a few rows back, and we grinned together. Smores!

But then, my smile faded and confused replaced the idea of the chocolately-delicious-graham-crackers.

I listened closely. This was not a normal bonfire.

This, my friends, was a bonfire in the name of Jesus. And we were to bring all of our records and cassette tapes to the bonfire.

"Gather up your music! Anything that isn't Christian and bring it! Bring it all to Sunday night service, and to our bonfire, and get ready to praise Jesus!"

We were having a bonfire. In the name of Jesus. To burn all the music we owned.

My music? I didn't understand. Why would I burn my music? Did I have to bring my music, or was this just the big piles that my parents had?

I chewed on my fingernails, already eaten down to the bloody nailbeds from the morning of hell preaching, and stared down at my Precious Moments bible.

Was this really happening?

I looked over at Mom and Dad, and they were nodding. My Dad, however, seemed to have a tight jaw, and my Mom was a funny pale that I noticed she would turn when she was quite angry.

Oh good, I thought. We won't be going. These were parent faces that meant no way.

A small knot in my stomach unclenched. Whew. We would be skipping Sunday night bonfire, I just knew it. I released my grip on my Bible, and got happy about lunch.

I was promised hotdogs--now, that was a special Sunday!

As I chowed on my hotdog a bit later, and jabbered on, I noticed that Mom and Dad were strangely quiet. They smiled at me, but we rushed through the mall and headed home.

Through the scuffle of the afternoon, I learned that we were, in fact, going to the bonfire.

I was also asked to gather my music.

Only a few short hours later, I stood at the bonfire. My knees locked and my brown sandals even browner from the mud.

I scratched at a bug bite on my arm, and watched as the smoke billowed higher and higher.

The fire was huge. 

I felt the Wienerschnitzel from lunch

coming up a little bit, sitting like a timebomb in my pot belly. I was mesmerized watching grown adults throw records and tapes into the flames.

Down went KISS, Air Supply, and Carly Simon. My dad slung our copy of Thriller into the flames. I watched as one of the most joyful memories with my mom melted. Me, my mom, riding in the Buick, listening to Beat It on a summer day so hot my thighs burned into the seat.

The plastics popped and warped. Hymns were being sung. The eyes of the adults flashing crazy against the heat of the flames.

My voice was gone, once again. I couldn’t speak. My face was hot, but not from the fire. I was burning with rage. I was angry. I was silently burning white hot rage. I had given these people so much of myself already, and now they were taking my memories, my music.

I reached down into the pile brought from our house. My chubby fingers wrapped around the plastic case. My Monkees cassette tape. I loved the Monkees.

I couldn’t throw it in, not all at once. It hurt too much. I opened the case, and the plastic separated into two pieces.

Throw it in, Dad said. He had burned dozens and dozens of piles of his vinyl. He had destroyed all the Jacksons: The Five, Jackson Browne, Michael. My mom had tossed in the BeeGees and Dolly.

They burned Dolly and Kenny, for the love, I remember thinking.

I watched horrified. Islands in the Stream. That is what we are. The memory of Mom and I singing and dancing to that song in the den, the speakers as tall as me.

The memory went up with the smoke.

Dad had given up all of his music, and now he heard no songs. He wanted me to hear no songs either.

In four parts—first the case parts, then the paper—which fluttered away—then at last the cassette tape.

I watched as the tape melted, a lump forming in my throat.

The bonfire let out a huge sigh of relief, huge and hot. Everything fell in my ears silent, and I knew there was no more music to hear. I turned my back and walked as far away as I could without being yelled at.

I held tight until they couldn’t see my tears, humming to myself: oh what can it mean to a Daydream Believer…

I knew I had chosen right. After all, I had chosen to burn the Monkees rather than to burn in hell.

"It's Spring," my Mom said again, snapping me back. “Don't forget to turn off the lights. Church starts in thirty!"

I looked at myself, all lace and Easter in the mirror, popped a handful of jelly beans into my mouth, and gathered a book for the road.

As I turned off the lights in the silent room, I thought to myself:

Cheer up sleepy Jean. It's Spring.