My dad’s library occupied the south wall of my playroom, the converted garage where my brother and I spent the bulk of our time when we weren’t outside or at school. Affectionately called the romper room, it housed our Atari console station, a pool table, pinball machine, and toy chest. What captivated me when we weren’t flexing our light sabers, engaging in a competitive game of Frogger, or pillaging the earthquake preparedness snacks stored in the shelves underneath the pool table, was the wall of books my dad had amassed over decades.
Circling the pool table, cue in hand and [im]patiently awaiting my turn provided me time to gaze upon my dad’s collection. I looked at it with curiosity and awe. I did not read any of those thick tomes. My books came from the library or Crown Books, but that wall provided a foundation for my understanding that learning is a lifelong affair.
Both my parents loved to read but they had different reading styles. My mom devoured fiction with little critical thought about the material. My dad consumed books, eager to discuss the information and share what he learned. I occupied the space between: I read out of curiosity and it led me to question the world around me but I rarely spoke my thoughts. I preferred to draw or paint, letting my mind develop through creative efforts to reconcile my emotional world with my physical one. As a solitary child, I reveled in visual language as a form of connection to the world around me. Speaking was never my forte.
Perhaps this is what led me to gravitate towards film as I got older. Film comforted me because it allowed me to express a wider range of emotions and helped manage the grief churned up by my shifting world when we moved from California to Texas. Books helped me imagine, film helped me feel.
No one could accuse me of having an addictive bent but observe me watching movies and you’ll see my compulsive streak surface. I can watch the same film over and over and over again and react anew each time. To this day, I can quote scenes from my favorite movies (mimicking the actor’s voice) or vividly reflect on entire sequences. Pivotal films of my youth included:
- The Black Stallion (1979) The Neverending Story (1984)
- Misunderstood (1984) Labyrinth (1986)
- Lucas (1986) Made in Heaven (1987)
- Breaking Away (1979) Broadcast News (1987)
Outcasts and angels. Seekers and nonconformists. Complicated individuals questioning their way through life and coming to terms with their belief systems. Each one navigates a hostile world while striving to remain faithful to their value system. Life pummels each of the leads, and yet they try to remain true.
Considering I spend much more time reading now than watching movies, I wonder if these movies helped shape me or if who I was drew me to these movies?
Reflecting on these characters helps me feel connected and inspired to keep learning, keep searching, and to continue building on the intellectual foundation my dad laid for me in spite of collective forces that desire otherwise. Sometimes that requires solitude and stillness, a book in one hand and a pen in the other. Sometimes it involves reaching out to the small circle of friends and acquaintances I’ve grown around me and expressing my thoughts verbally. And sometimes I just stay inside and watch one of these movies again. Either way, I continue to learn and grow and share in ways that my dad would admire.
