Alumni Association University of Michigan — Winter 2012
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My College Roommate
When I met Madonna Ciccone, my initial assessment, even as I watched her leg soaring into an effortless front extension, was that I had little to learn from any young whippersnapper from Michigan, safety-pinned earlobes or no. I felt no instant flush of warmth and trust the day we met, no recognition of a kindred spirit—in fact, all I recall feeling was an almost seismic wariness. But somehow, a few days later, she was my roommate. She moved into apartment 10A of University Towers, an ugly 60s-era monolith right on campus, and took the bed on the other side of a Formica partition. I never knew what hit me.
My new roommate was thin, quick, funny, irreverent, and very crafty. She was sexy on the dance floor and sexless at night in her socks as she complained about how boring Michigan was. Madonna, dare I say it, liberated my inner child. And that child was a juvenile delinquent.
On the flip side, she seemed fascinated with my life—my status as a pampered only child of divorced parents, raised in New York, wellschooled, and well-traveled. It seemed to blow her mind that my father, a respected actor and member of the Actor’s Studio, played poker with Al Pacino every week. Sometimes, when my mother called, I sensed that Madonna was listening carefully to every word I said, trying to puzzle the errant justice that had taken her mother but spared mine.
If there was an occasional edge of competitiveness in our friendship— we were dancers after all, staring in mirrors all day, being judged for our thinness, artistry, and fearlessness— there was just as much support. There were many, many long and convoluted conversations in which we strove to build each other up, and to figure out men and life and dance and selves. And like college girls everywhere, I wrote it all down in a red, Pen-Tab notebook.
When she left for New York, I was quietly relieved. Knowing Madonna and loving her (for we had grown to be close friends) was a lot of work. For all our bonding, I never really trusted her. I drifted back to my old ways: dating wide-eyed college students who immediately made plans to marry and sequester me; sucking up to teachers; cultivating friendships with nice, interesting, normal women who did not straddle me on the dance floor. Madonna went on to New York, her goal to rule the world tucked safely in her bosom, her legendary $13 jammed in a fist that let nothing and no one get in her way. Cool.
If she hadn’t gone all famous, I believe we would have kept in touch. I think about that sometimes, about the times I would have called her if I could have. When my first child was born, I wanted to tell her about it, but I didn’t know where she was. When she married Sean Penn, it would have been nice to send her a chafing dish. A picture frame. I don’t know. Maybe not. It is kind of strange though, knowing that any attempt at communication with her might now be perceived as having some kind of agenda. Whoa. No thanks.
My knowing Madonna has been like the world’s largest, most persistent mosquito, or like a dissertation you were supposed to hand in years ago and just can’t quite wrap your head around. Some years ago, (someone) said, “You should write a book.” Well, that seemed like an idea. I wrote a few chapters and got bored, ambivalent, and busy. After a long hiatus, I gave it another go. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that the story of my knowing her has a lot to do with some themes I actually am interested in: women artists in America, fame versus nonfame, life versus life onscreen, and all the ways you can lose your mom.
Whit (Setrakian) Hill, ’79, a writer, singersongwriter, and dancer who lives in Nashville, Tennessee, is the author of “Not About Madonna: My Little Pre-Icon Roommate and Other Memoirs” (2011). This is an abridged version of the introduction to the book, reprinted with her permission.
When I met Madonna Ciccone, my initial assessment, even as I watched her leg soaring into an effortless front extension, was that I had little to learn from any young whippersnapper from Michigan, safety-pinned earlobes or no. I felt no instant flush of warmth and trust the day we met, no recognition of a kindred spirit—in fact, all I recall feeling was an almost seismic wariness. But somehow, a few days later, she was my roommate. She moved into apartment 10A of University Towers, an ugly 60s-era monolith right on campus, and took the bed on the other side of a Formica partition. I never knew what hit me.
My new roommate was thin, quick, funny, irreverent, and very crafty. She was sexy on the dance floor and sexless at night in her socks as she complained about how boring Michigan was. Madonna, dare I say it, liberated my inner child. And that child was a juvenile delinquent.
On the flip side, she seemed fascinated with my life—my status as a pampered only child of divorced parents, raised in New York, wellschooled, and well-traveled. It seemed to blow her mind that my father, a respected actor and member of the Actor’s Studio, played poker with Al Pacino every week. Sometimes, when my mother called, I sensed that Madonna was listening carefully to every word I said, trying to puzzle the errant justice that had taken her mother but spared mine.
If there was an occasional edge of competitiveness in our friendship— we were dancers after all, staring in mirrors all day, being judged for our thinness, artistry, and fearlessness— there was just as much support. There were many, many long and convoluted conversations in which we strove to build each other up, and to figure out men and life and dance and selves. And like college girls everywhere, I wrote it all down in a red, Pen-Tab notebook.
When she left for New York, I was quietly relieved. Knowing Madonna and loving her (for we had grown to be close friends) was a lot of work. For all our bonding, I never really trusted her. I drifted back to my old ways: dating wide-eyed college students who immediately made plans to marry and sequester me; sucking up to teachers; cultivating friendships with nice, interesting, normal women who did not straddle me on the dance floor. Madonna went on to New York, her goal to rule the world tucked safely in her bosom, her legendary $13 jammed in a fist that let nothing and no one get in her way. Cool.
If she hadn’t gone all famous, I believe we would have kept in touch. I think about that sometimes, about the times I would have called her if I could have. When my first child was born, I wanted to tell her about it, but I didn’t know where she was. When she married Sean Penn, it would have been nice to send her a chafing dish. A picture frame. I don’t know. Maybe not. It is kind of strange though, knowing that any attempt at communication with her might now be perceived as having some kind of agenda. Whoa. No thanks.
My knowing Madonna has been like the world’s largest, most persistent mosquito, or like a dissertation you were supposed to hand in years ago and just can’t quite wrap your head around. Some years ago, (someone) said, “You should write a book.” Well, that seemed like an idea. I wrote a few chapters and got bored, ambivalent, and busy. After a long hiatus, I gave it another go. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that the story of my knowing her has a lot to do with some themes I actually am interested in: women artists in America, fame versus nonfame, life versus life onscreen, and all the ways you can lose your mom.
Whit (Setrakian) Hill, ’79, a writer, singersongwriter, and dancer who lives in Nashville, Tennessee, is the author of “Not About Madonna: My Little Pre-Icon Roommate and Other Memoirs” (2011). This is an abridged version of the introduction to the book, reprinted with her permission.
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