Why I Keep Up with the Kardashians
Any self-respecting Philadelphian has gone through a few rites of passage during his or her time in the City of Brotherly Love: Running up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art like Rocky, booing both our team and the other team at Phillies and Eagles games, gorging on crabfries at Chickie’s and Pete’s. I joined the ranks of Philadelphia’s finest when I ordered those irresistible crabfries (along with a glass of water—pronounced “wooder” where I come from) during a late lunch at Chickie’s and Pete’s in 2009.
My parents and I had the poorly lit place to ourselves until a group of middle-aged guys came sauntering in. Their cool looks and confident struts captured our attention right away. Dressed in leather jackets, these dudes seemed pretty hardcore, but I didn’t have a chance to get a good look at them as they slid into their seats a few tables away. I joked to my parents, “Wouldn’t it be funny if those men are in a famous band, and we had no idea?” Well, those men were in a famous band, and we had no idea. My dad read in the newspaper the next day that Bon Jovi was in town, and I then read that the rocker’s favorite Philadelphia dive is Chickie’s and Pete’s. I put two and two together, and I was beside myself. This was before the days of selfies, but I at least could have nabbed an autograph on my crabfry-encrusted napkin.
The irony of my missed opportunity is that I am fascinated by celebrities and the pop cultural sphere that they inhabit. I spend my free time combing through Twitter to read the musings of my favorite stars and devouring every word of entertainment news articles to learn about the goings-on of B-list actors. No tweet is too inane to spark my curiosity (I’m looking at you, Jaden Smith). No article is too obscure to merit my interest (seriously, I just read an article about the fashion ambitions of Sadie Robertson of “Duck Dynasty”). I especially love picking apart the Hollywood elite’s style decisions, from the chicest of chic (Heidi Klum’s gown at the 2012 Emmy Awards) to the oddest of odd (Keira Knightley’s butterfly-adorned frock at the 2015 Golden Globes). Red carpet season is my Christmas.
Perhaps the most unusual aspect of my obsession with all things pop culture is not the enthusiasm that I devote to it but the extensiveness with which I recall its ins and outs. Dubbed a walking People magazine by my family, I pride myself on remembering every last detail of celebrities’ lives. Wondering what Prince Albert and Princess Charlene of Monaco named their newborn twins? I’m your gal. Can’t remember from whom Hilary Duff just filed for divorce? I’ve got you covered. Curious which dress Sandra Bullock wore the night that she won an Oscar for Best Actress? I’m not one to forget a stand-out design.
When I came to Harvard, I expected to cram my celebrity fix into pockets of extra time, scrolling through tweets in the seven minutes before class starts and reading Us Weekly articles on the shuttle to play practice. But I was downright giddy to discover that Harvard allowed me to bring my interest into the classroom. I loaded my schedule with classes about pop culture, from “Rise of Pop” (my final paper was about “The Rocky Horror Picture Show”) to “Media and Pop Culture” (my final paper was about the rise of the Kardashian empire) to “I Will Survive: Women’s Political Resistance Through Popular Song” (my final paper was about the feminist evolutions of Miley Cyrus and Taylor Swift). I had to pinch myself when my research included listening to Hannah Montana hits that I used to belt out during my preteen years.
Taking these classes helped me answer a question that has plagued me for a long time: Why do I keep up with the Kardashians? Celebrities are not the heroes they portray on the big screen—they are flawed, regular folks who hit it big. So why do I care when they fall in and out of love? Why do I care when they have fashion flubs on the red carpet? Why do I care when they name their children outrageous monikers (don’t think I’ve forgotten you, Apple Martin)?
To me, the fact that celebrities are so normal makes their affairs that much more captivating. The world of pop culture is a microcosm of sociopolitical issues that affect us all. The untimely death of Cory Monteith taught a valuable lesson about the dangers of drug use. David Burtka and Neil Patrick Harris’s beautiful family makes a strong statement in favor of equal rights, and speculation around Bruce Jenner’s possible transition from male to female sparked a national conversation about gender expression. Angelina Jolie brings attention to humanitarian crises across the globe, and Amanda Bynes has become a talking point in the discussion about mental health. The tragic death of Princess Diana shows what can happen when celebrity obsession goes too far.
But on the flip side, I also think that there is nothing wrong with having no good answer to the question of why I keep up with the Kardashians. Maybe I tune into “The Bachelorette” because I enjoy the frivolity of watching vacuous men throw themselves at a glammed-up woman. Maybe I read about Kate Middleton because I am smitten with the romance of a modern-day Cinderella story. Maybe I follow the feuds between Bette Midler and Ariana Grande or Orlando Bloom and Justin Bieber because I view the stupidity of it all as a lighthearted break in my day. While I relish the opportunity that Harvard gives me to think deeply about academic subjects that I care about, like art history and sociology and English, maybe I just think the whole celebrity thing is fun. Sometimes it’s important to just kick back and have fun.
So I’ll keep the sky-high stack of People magazines that I store in my room. I’ll continue reading celebrities’ tweets and scanning entertainment news articles. I’ll recognize pop culture’s place in my life and in society as everything and nothing, as a magnifying glass of profound sociopolitical issues and a delightful way to waste a bit of time. And I’ll make a final plea to Jon Bon Jovi: If you’re reading this, could you please make my seventh-grade dreams come true and send me an autograph on a crabfry-encrusted napkin?
— Emily B. Zauzmer