In 1992, then 25-year-old Sinéad O'Connor appeared on Saturday Night Live. She was a budding international musical superstar with two chart-topping records to her name. And, unbeknownst to producers, she had decided to use her platform to protest rampant child abuse in the Catholic Church. At the end of her performance, she stared straight into the camera, tore up a picture of Pope John Paul II and threw it at the camera as she shouted, “fight the real enemy.”

Now remember, 1992 was almost a decade before the sexual abuse scandals in the Catholic Church would come to light in this country. Not only were most Americans unaware of the evils that had unfolded behind closed doors, but they were also outraged that a pop star would dare to dishonor and defame a venerated religious leader. Sinéad was immediately and very publicly scorned, mocked, and ridiculed.

Two weeks later, she was scheduled to perform at a special Madison Square Garden concert. Country music star Kris Kristofferson introduced her by saying, “I’m real proud to introduce this next artist, whose name’s become synonymous with courage and integrity, Sinéad O'Connor.” As soon as he says her name, the crowd begins to boo and jeer at her. Sinéad walks on stage and stands in the face of that hate for what seems like forever. She adjusts her mic, tries saying “thank you” the way she would begin any other performance, but the crowd just keeps screaming at her. The band tries to save her by starting her song, but she cuts them off. 20,000 people in the audience are still booing. Jeering. The hate doesn’t end. She stares out, waiting. Kris returns. He leans in and whispers something in her ear, then walks away. Again, the band tries to temper the vitriol of the crowd with instrumentals to no avail. Finally, Sinéad says, “turn this up,” and then begins to sing/scream the same song she sang on Saturday Night Live. She gets out every word. The crowd is still booing. She finishes, turns and begins to walk off the stage. Kris meets her, hugs her, and the two exit together.

As a performer, I cannot imagine the grit it took to stand strong in front of 20,000 angry, booing audience members; not only to stand strong but to have the presence of mind to be able to pause and reflect about what she wanted to do, how she wanted to proceed, to decide to sing the very same song that earned her all of this vitriol. Later she would share that she herself was the victim of abuse growing up. That the picture she shredded belonged to her abusive mother. That she wasn’t just taking a stand for victims in general, but for herself and for every child that had ever been abused. That she believed that she was more than a pretty voice and had an obligation to stand for justice. Fundamentally she was right. A decade later, the country would be roiled by revelations of abuse, cover ups, and the church would begin paying out settlements. But she was a ahead of her time. That courageous stand ended her career.

This story made the rounds in September of 2024, when Kris Kristofferson passed away, because this moment of support kindled a beautiful friendship that would last for the next thirty-one years. But it resurfaced in my memory this week for a very different reason.