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Rainbow Rowell: To Bono, who gave us keys to a good cry
BY RAINBOW ROWELL
WORLD-HERALD COLUMNIST
This column is for Bono, who is in Nebraska today.
I know that just because you're in Nebraska doesn't mean you're going to read my column.
But let's face it, we're not going to meet over a pint anytime soon, and even if we did, I'd be star-struck and worthless. So maybe this is the best chance I'll have to say what I need to say.
Thank you.
The first time I heard "Pride (In the Name of Love)," it made me feel strong. I wasn't strong. I was 12 years old and lost at sea, and honestly, I didn't even know what that song was about.
But it made me feel strong. It made me feel like shouting.
And also, kind of like crying.
Those are the best kind of songs, aren't they? The ones that make you feel good and bad at the same time. The ones that make you feel alive.
U2 songs get me like that. Me and thousands of other people, right?
How many teen-agers hoped they wouldn't wake up their parents by listening to the song "Bad" over and over at 3 a.m.? How many road trips have kicked off to "Where the Streets Have No Name?" How many mix tapes have ended with "With or Without You"?
U2 isn't an acquired taste or an exclusive experience. U2 appeals to the better angels of our nature. When I meet someone who truly loves U2, I'm convinced he or she is good inside.
When my husband sent me a tape with the song "Drowning Man," I decided to marry him.
Now I'm gushing. Sorry. Even writing a column you probably won't read, I'm star-struck.
Back to the point. Back to thanking you for the songs that make us feel alive.
After Sept. 11 . . .
I don't know if other Nebraskans feel this way, but I don't feel like I'm allowed to use that phrase - after September 11 - because after Sept. 11, my life didn't change that much.
I never thought that planes would fall from the sky over Omaha, not really. I didn't lose anybody.
After Sept. 11, I didn't feel as sad as I thought I should or as scared as I thought I should. And when I did feel sad and scared, I felt like I didn't have a right to those feelings.
So I settled into not feeling much at all.
When U2 announced the second leg of the Elevation tour, I fixated on being there. I got kind of weird about it.
When two attempts to get tickets failed, I broke down at Baker's supermarket's Ticketmaster counter. (How can someone who can't cry when she sees buildings fall down cry over a rock concert? Messed up.)
I found myself telling one friend that if anyone could help me make sense of what was happening in our country, it was you. Bono. She's a bigger U2 fan than I am, but she thought I was expecting too much.
My husband and I finally got tickets and flew to Chicago to see U2 on Oct. 16 of last year.
I was wrong. You didn't make sense out of Sept. 11. That was a dumb idea.
But you did do something more worthwhile. You let us grieve. Me, anyway.
I needed to stand with thousands of other people and shout as loud as I could that what happened on Sept. 11 was wrong and that life in general is hard and exhausting. How long, how long must we sing this song?
And if it was OK for an Irishman to cry for America, it was OK for me to cry, too. Omaha may be far from New York City, but Dublin is even farther.
That thing you did, when you took off your leather jacket and showed that it was lined with the American flag? The way you clutched it to you and held it out like a banner? I know some people said that was too much. But it broke my heart.
So thank you. And welcome to Nebraska.
Rainbow Rowell: To Bono, who gave us keys to a good cry
BY RAINBOW ROWELL
WORLD-HERALD COLUMNIST
This column is for Bono, who is in Nebraska today.
I know that just because you're in Nebraska doesn't mean you're going to read my column.
But let's face it, we're not going to meet over a pint anytime soon, and even if we did, I'd be star-struck and worthless. So maybe this is the best chance I'll have to say what I need to say.
Thank you.
The first time I heard "Pride (In the Name of Love)," it made me feel strong. I wasn't strong. I was 12 years old and lost at sea, and honestly, I didn't even know what that song was about.
But it made me feel strong. It made me feel like shouting.
And also, kind of like crying.
Those are the best kind of songs, aren't they? The ones that make you feel good and bad at the same time. The ones that make you feel alive.
U2 songs get me like that. Me and thousands of other people, right?
How many teen-agers hoped they wouldn't wake up their parents by listening to the song "Bad" over and over at 3 a.m.? How many road trips have kicked off to "Where the Streets Have No Name?" How many mix tapes have ended with "With or Without You"?
U2 isn't an acquired taste or an exclusive experience. U2 appeals to the better angels of our nature. When I meet someone who truly loves U2, I'm convinced he or she is good inside.
When my husband sent me a tape with the song "Drowning Man," I decided to marry him.
Now I'm gushing. Sorry. Even writing a column you probably won't read, I'm star-struck.
Back to the point. Back to thanking you for the songs that make us feel alive.
After Sept. 11 . . .
I don't know if other Nebraskans feel this way, but I don't feel like I'm allowed to use that phrase - after September 11 - because after Sept. 11, my life didn't change that much.
I never thought that planes would fall from the sky over Omaha, not really. I didn't lose anybody.
After Sept. 11, I didn't feel as sad as I thought I should or as scared as I thought I should. And when I did feel sad and scared, I felt like I didn't have a right to those feelings.
So I settled into not feeling much at all.
When U2 announced the second leg of the Elevation tour, I fixated on being there. I got kind of weird about it.
When two attempts to get tickets failed, I broke down at Baker's supermarket's Ticketmaster counter. (How can someone who can't cry when she sees buildings fall down cry over a rock concert? Messed up.)
I found myself telling one friend that if anyone could help me make sense of what was happening in our country, it was you. Bono. She's a bigger U2 fan than I am, but she thought I was expecting too much.
My husband and I finally got tickets and flew to Chicago to see U2 on Oct. 16 of last year.
I was wrong. You didn't make sense out of Sept. 11. That was a dumb idea.
But you did do something more worthwhile. You let us grieve. Me, anyway.
I needed to stand with thousands of other people and shout as loud as I could that what happened on Sept. 11 was wrong and that life in general is hard and exhausting. How long, how long must we sing this song?
And if it was OK for an Irishman to cry for America, it was OK for me to cry, too. Omaha may be far from New York City, but Dublin is even farther.
That thing you did, when you took off your leather jacket and showed that it was lined with the American flag? The way you clutched it to you and held it out like a banner? I know some people said that was too much. But it broke my heart.
So thank you. And welcome to Nebraska.
