When I was young, I loved movies. All kinds. Comedies, drama, documentaries, mysteries, horror, high-teen, supernatural thrillers. I went to the movie theater often, alone or with friends. I think my favorite part back then was to walk out and block the hallway to discuss the finer points of the plot, how cute Legolas was, how amazing the music was. We would tilt our heads wondering wtf The Matrix was, while loving it enough to go see it again. I adored movies so very much.
I remember in college, I was blessed to live across the street from The Gateway theater. It was so so old and played a mix of indie, foreign, and mainstream movies. I fell for Amelie and was in awe of the open, raw sexuality of Y Tu Mamá También. I spun romantic dreams watching Chocolat, was shocked at the unabashed violence of Battle Royale, and felt a kinship with Ikari Shinji in the original finale of Neon Genesis Evangelion.I even skipped graduation to take mom to see Mr. & Mrs. Smith.
I was always a sponge for stories. Greedy for them. I especially remember this when I graduated and got a Netflix DVD account. I probably was one of their most active members then, keeping a steady rotation of DVDs coming in and out. Primer, Napoleon Dynamite, Requiem for a Dream, Mambo Italiano, Juno. The classic literature that I had available to me as a teen forged much of me. But the movies were what made my world bigger, richer.
12 years ago, I lost my precious movies.
I didn't notice it happening. Like a relationship that fades, my departure from movies was so slow, that I did not realize what was happening until much later from its genesis. But I think it started when I lost my mother. My life has been a mix of good and bad, and I was no stranger to grief. But losing mom transcends all the other things put together. And the hot rage I felt knowing she could have gotten help before it was too late transcends sometimes even the bitterness I feel toward my father. And the shame of having to stay in the US while she was sick to send her money. That I failed to have enough money and to be able to stay with her at the end. When I grieved, I did not notice I had changed. I just tried to survive, whittling my world down. Estranging myself from my family and friends because of my shame that I was alive and my beautiful, vibrant mother was the one that was gone.
It was only years later... that I watched a movie and cried a little more than usual. I thought nothing of it. But in time, I realized that when I watch television series or movies, I would cry more and more. At the sad scenes. During victory scenes. When the community helped each other. When a couple hugged. Or a daughter cried in her mother's arms. I started to feel embarrased and avoid movies. It felt odd. Movies are so important. Stories are essential to our human experience. I severed something important to bond with those I cared about. But I didn't want to cry so much.
My world feels so small sometimes and I feel trapped in my schedule. The infinte loop that starts at 5:00 and ends at 22:00. Sometimes my life makes me so angry. But sometimes... despite the crying, I make myself watch a movie alone. So I can make my world a little bigger. To feel in the span of two hours, that there are others worlds, lives, cultures.
Today was one of those days I decided to watch something. I cried more than the story merited. But I feel slighty more alive. Like when I would walk out the of the cinema, with a dopamine high. Feeling the sunlight hit my face and having a sense that I could change my world.
We tell ourselves stories in order to live.
– Joan Didion