Y2K Redux
It's the end of the world as we know it yet again
Ms. Rona has made strange, socially distant bedfellows with disparate corners of the online world. The ever impending doom of the pandemic has us communally consuming all sorts of media. It also caused a huge shift and reckoning within the well guarded walls of prestige publications. And here I am starting a newsletter at the suggestion of a well regarded twitter fave all without the structure of a proper editor. Will this experiment fail? I’m not sure but I thought it would be fitting to write my inaugural essay about the first time I experienced the end of the world back in 1999.
Before I get to Y2K, let me walk you through my process of early aughts nostalgia. While Covid-19 infections (and deaths) rose and we marched to demand respect for our humanity at the hands of a violent, racist state, we also indulged. We ate and drank in record numbers (and that’s about to increase doubly this past week of acceptable gluttony). And we also binged all sorts of series, short and long. From Tiger King to 90 Day Fiance and everything in between, my small twitter universe couldn’t get enough.
My dearest not so guilty pleasure is the Real Housewives franchise. The ladies from Jersey and NY are, of course, top tier but my individual fave is the inimitable Dorit of Beverly Hills. With her undeterminable fake accent (as the wonderful Safy documented in the astute pop culture observations contained within Hip to Waste) and her ever shifting throwback hairstyles, I’m obsessed with Dorit. On a beautiful homebound day in July, I binged all the previous editions of RHOBH in anticipation for that Wednesday night’s new episode. I live tweeted it as is customary in our social media dominated existence and was delighted to see Dorit sporting my preferred going out hairstyle of my high school years, a bob with a sleek blowout and flipped ends. Dorit’s was dyed a strawlike blonde in an out of date ombre. In my day, I sported the look in Manic Panic Fire Engine Red.
Comparing myself to Dorit didn’t fly over well and I was quickly microaggressed in the DMs.
No shade to the very talented Whoopi but the aesthetic inspiration of my youth was a mishmash of Reagan Gomez, Monica, and the petite Cancerian rap goddess, Lil’ Kim with a touch of heavy handed emo makeup (no matchy pastels for me. I was a strict black eyeshadow devotee. It played up the doe eyed innocent look.) The closest I ever came to dreads was when my sisters cut my matted curls into a pixie (I told everyone I cut my hair in preparation for my musical theater debut in Dreamgirls. I was in the ensemble. No need for anything method.) I proceeded to hunt for old photos to show a then and now side by side and there began my stroll through Y2K memory lane.
I couldn’t find any good pictures of myself. I was pretty resistant to photography in my teens except for the self-portraits I kept in my art journal. But I’m not sharing those. Back to retelling my memories.
It was an ominous New Year’s Eve on December 31, 1999. I’d never had any interest in Catholicism until I was invited to a party a few weeks before winter break and my mother didn’t grant permission for me to attend. Suddenly, I wished I was part of a church where I could attend service in jeans, indulge in the world, and at the end of the week, just confess my sins. Instead of dancing into midnight to ring in the year 2000, I would be lighting white candles on what was sure to be the last day to celebrate anything ever again.
If you were too young to fully comprehend the outright madness of Y2K preppers or perhaps you weren’t even born yet, there is no way to describe the fear and trepidation that was widespread throughout the country. My church did not outright preach that the end was nigh but there was such a heavy focus on Revelations. The youth pastor, my older sister’s brother-in-law, was obsessed with the Left Behind novel series. The congregation discussed the impending New Year in hushed whispers. There were the DoomsDayers and the people that maxed out their credit cards and skipped their mortgage payments. Everyone had a closet full of canned goods. And the raves were out of this world. People didn’t start the saying “party like it’s 1999” for no reason.
The last night of the year and the beginning of my first end of the world, I was spacing out in a church pew. My sister, a wonderful classic soprano, sang Avalon’s Adonai right before the start of the countdown. She was pregnant with my niece Nicole and worried she would ruin her performance with her daylong morning sickness. I don’t remember much more of the night except the chills I felt when I heard my sister sing the first verse.
One single drop of rain
Your salty tear became blue ocean
One tiny grain of sand turning in your hand
The world in motion
It was a beautiful rendition much more powerful than the original. I was at immediate attention from the start and when she hit the crescendos in the bridge, my eyes welled up in tears.
From age to age you reign in Majesty
And today You're making miracles in me
In that moment I knew I was at the right place should all the prophesies come to be. The entire congregation lit white candles and we counted down the New Year in silence. And it was fine. Everything was fine. And there would be another party next December 31st too.
Sorry I couldn't rip my sister's performance from the VHS. But I’m much sorrier that our reaction to pandemic is nowhere near taken as seriously as the possibility of an internet blackout. I guess we’ve become inured to panic after the first stolen election (in 2000) and then 9/11 and then what else? The end of the Mayan calendar? There have been so many earth shattering tragedies since. And now everyone just wants to party like it’s 1999 once again.
Y2K was a crazy time. They made a whole TV show about it crashing society. Also, no disrespect to Whoopi, but she was never as fine as you.