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that pinstriped Lee jeans from Meijer Thrifty Acres—a hot commodity in Bay City—wouldn’t suffice for the social order of my new school. Every morning, the class bully, who for a few weeks played the veiled role of being my friend, asked me “What brand is your shirt?” When I hesitated or
didn’t say the brand Guess, she grabbed my collar to see for herself. It was 1986, and Madonna and I both wanted new identities. Of course, she was eons ahead of trend, spinning retro-personas for the songs on True Blue . I just wanted to raise my hand in math class and get asked to a school dance. It took years to learn that a girl rarely gets it both ways.
    By high school I’d matured enough to bring my boyfriends home (even the bad apples), and to appreciate Madonna for the game-changing entertainer she’d become. One ho-hum Friday night I rented Truth or Dare to rouse the “mixed company” at the unchaperoned party at my house. By Monday, word got round: Truth or Dare had caused a stir. My reputation took a hit. Ridiculous! I’m sure I either shook a fist or rolled my eyes.
    At this point, I could see the absurdity of what Madonna knew all along: that most social expectations are suffocating, or desperately old-fashioned. Yet in my years of growing up, I don’t recall her making a point of coming back to Michigan to perform. She wasn’t one to call out to her girls this side of 8 Mile. And though I later figured out she didn’t exactly grow up in Bay City—she was born during a visit to her grandparents’ house, and returned often to visit them—she didn’t grow up in “real” Detroit either, with its industrial grit and stronghold on music legend. No, Madonna grew up in its tony suburb, Rochester Hills. A cheerleader and straight-A student. Full scholarship to the University of Michigan. Teen Madonna, it turns out, may have behaved better than I did; I was a straight-A student who only earned partial scholarships. But that’s like saying cake isn’t cake unless it’s frosted. Because let me be clear: No amount of good behavior would have been enough for either Madonna or me. Generations before and since have faced the same limited mindset about how girls should behave. Madonna’s grasp of this enabled her to embrace the idea of girls having it every way, whether the world was ready or not.
    That’s why, even as I left adolescence behind, I still felt connected to her as an adult. If ever asked which famous person I’d most like to
meet, she topped my list—I would play the hometown card as an icebreaker, and we’d slap backs in recognition. For a long time she was the only celebrity to whom I could claim a vague personal connection beyond being born in the same town—one of my aunts was a counselor in her younger siblings’ school. Another relative socialized with her father and stepmother, who had moved to northern Michigan and started a winery. For a while, they all sang in the same church choir. Maybe my dreams of meeting Madonna in the flesh weren’t as far-fetched as I’d believed.
    So I took note when she moved to England, around 2000, and donned that odd accent, erasing not only her home state but also her home nation. Her abandonment struck a chord. After all, when a gal has high hopes in almost any field, she doesn’t picture a future in the Wolverine State. At least that’s what I decided after high school, when I ventured beyond the state’s borders for college, ultimately landing in Boston. For those who think Michigan is a depressing place to live—a stinky little state—I fashioned Madonna’s ex-pat status into a sign of my own charmed potential.
    I still feel like an outsider of sorts in New England, but I am convinced that my most recent iteration as a writer would not have been possible had I not pursued opportunities outside Michigan. Who would I have been if I’d stayed? What about Madonna?

    A few summers ago, I visited Madonna’s father’s winery in Sutton’s Bay with my