I was seven and my sister
was eleven when Star Wars, Episode VI, Return of the Jedi aired on network
television (NBC). Our whole family had
been looking forward to it and we were all going to sit down and watch it
together. We had previously watched
Episode IV and Episode V, A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back respectively,
when they had aired on network television in previous years.
The thing about Start Wars
is, I enjoyed. And enjoying anything was
dangerous in my childhood. It was an
open invitation to abuse from my sister.
I still remember her long flannel nightgown with the ruffled hem and her
copper-blond hair with the frizzy tight curls of an ‘80s perm. My own hair was platinum blonde until middle
school and continued to grow in progressively darker as time went on.
I don’t remember any
specifics of this – just knowing that my sister always found an excuse to quash
my joy. She could never stand to allow
anyone to be happier than her. In fact,
she could never stand to allow anyone else to be happy at all, regardless of
how happy she was. Not much has changed
in the past 28 years.
When I was young, sleep was
my defense mechanism. I could sleep
through anything. I slept through an
extraordinary amount of domestic violence that my father enacted against my
mother. Beatings, humiliations, at least
two attempts at murder. My siblings
witnessed all of these – I only saw the aftermath of the majority. I slept soundly and deeply and nothing could
rouse me until my mind and my body told me it was safe.
What I remember most from
Star Wars, Episode VI is the Ewok Village.
I wanted an Ewok more than anything.
As an adult I can’t really remember what purpose they served the film and, with a hefty dose of cynicism, I suspect their sole purpose might have been a
marketing ploy – one more way to sell kids on the idea of having their own
piece of the wider galaxy and one more way to get parents to part with $20.00
for a toy that cost $0.20 to make.
As an adult, I’ve tried
watching Star Wars at least four times.
None of my friends can believe that I didn’t fall in love with the
movies growing up – just like they did!
What no one seems to realize is that being the focal point of so much
abuse from my sister made falling in love with anything a risky venture.
Every time I’ve tried to watch any of the Star Wars movies as an adult,
I’ve fallen asleep within 15 minutes of hitting the “Play” button. It does not matter how awake and full of
energy and verve I was when I sat down.
The music and the opening credits and introduction of Luke Skywalker and
I’m fast asleep.
D is equally as
horrified by this gap in my film knowledge as every other friend I have. This is, for him, a fatal flaw. It’s not a deal breaker. But it is a fatal flaw. With the new Star Wars movie coming out next
month, he’s determine to rectify what he sees as failure of in my upbringing
and introduce me to Star Wars all over again and help me fall in love with Star
Wars like he did and like so many of my other friends did.
And I’m trying. I managed to stay awake through the entirety
of A New Hope. I don’t really remember
much of it from that viewing two weeks ago. It was after watching Episode IV, however, that D settled on a theory for my failure to connect with and deeply love these films: it’s the music. So much of what makes Star Wars what it is is
the soundtrack. If I could just let
myself experience the music, if I would just open myself up to it, I could find
some glimmer of the love he has for it.
So, we tried. Or rather, I tried. We sat down the other night to watch Episode
V, The Empire Strikes Back. "Remember," he said to me, "pay attention to the music. The music is what makes the movie."
To stay
awake past the three minute mark, I paid half attention to the movie and half
attention to a game on my phone. When I
ran out of lives on this “match three” game, I handed my phone to D and
tried to give all my focus to the screen.
To keep myself awake, I tried to connect the dots of what was going on
on the screen. What were the gaps, would
they be filled in, how much did I remember, how much did I forget, would any of
these questions be answered? D grew frustrated
with my incessant questions as I spoke over the dialogue of the movie at some
critical junctures and asked me to at least hold my questions until each scene
I was questioning had ended. I
tried. I barely kept my eyes open.
I couldn’t tell you now, 20 hours later, how
it all ended. I just don’t remember
anything after the tauntaun and Yoda.
Though typing this now helps me to recall Luke’s foolish rescue venture, the
trap, and his fateful final scene with Darth Vader, losing his hand, jumping to
his possible death and being saved by Leia and Chewbacca in the Millennium Falcon. (And I only know the name of this ship because my best friend named her car in college after it and I was humiliated publicly for not getting the reference).
I couldn’t lift my legs
sufficiently after the movie to make my way to bed with any kind of ease. Upon making reaching the summit of our staircase,
I headed to the bathroom, peeled my contact lenses from my weary eyes, and
brushed my teeth. A few minutes later, I
crawled into bed and fell fast asleep and deeply asleep, my body curled around
D’s pillow for comfort.
When D came to bed about
an hour and an half later, I did not notice.
I woke up several times in the course of the night, restless and
uncomfortable. I was surprised to find
him beside me and to find that he had reclaimed his pillow in the process of
making his way to bed.
What I remember most from
what D calls “anxiety dreams” and I called “nighttime resurrections of my
nightmarish childhood” is flashes of images.
That frizzy permed hair. The
ruffled hem of that flannel nightgown.
Pain in my body and the feeling of having my soul pillaged.
Of course I can’t connect
with Star Wars. Falling in love with
anything is a dangerous affair. Of
course I don’t connect with the music. I
don’t really connect with any
music. She stole that from me, too.
But I’m learning how to fall
in love again. And this time I know that
it’s safe. So maybe there is hope for
Star Wars. But D shouldn’t hold his
breath.
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