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I Miss The Good Old Days
by Chelsea Doyle
I miss the good old days. Saying that, when I barely have 20 years under my
metaphoric belt, is certain to inspire a few nasty grumblings from the older
imaginary readers of this column (imaginary since I have come to the
conclusion for my own sanity that if no one actually reads this; no one will
chase after me with a giant water beetle like my seventh grade boyfriend did
once he found out I was scared of insects. He thought, naturally, it would be
part of his charm), but I have been feeling lately like the memories of
childhood are growing farther and farther away from reality. Today a friend of
mine was telling me about a tire swing out at the waterfall on campus, and
going skinny dipping in the springtime, and I thought to myself “Ahhh yes.
Freedom is what being young is all about.”
You see, I can remember a time when my days consisted of playing only. Oh, the
games would change, and you would get into serious arguments over who gets to
play Rainbow Brite and who has to be the talking horse, or play sardines
unwisely, with everyone in one big room where you were absolutely convinced
that hiding behind a wall of plastic blue building blocks was the same as
having an invisibility shield. Life was simple. Your teachers were truly only
there as underpaid babysitters, and every day you could go home to watch
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles kick some butt or the Muppets make political
references way over your pigtailed little head. That was where the real
learning began. I learned how to ride my bike from Master Splinter, because he
said to face my fears, and although I fell into a ditch while doing so, it was
the thought that counted (that’s what you get taking advice from a radioactive
rodent). The television critics would probably judge Splinter too scary for
the common child now, and make a new icon: a violet colored dinosaur that
jumps up and down like a brain-damaged clown, giving no life lessons or
wisdom, only cheesy songs and flashing lights made for the purpose of
marketing. Oh wait, they all ready did that.
My generation’s beloved movies would never be considered for children
nowadays. The Dark Crystal? It includes the death of an entire race, mayhem,
with only two young survivors of a heartbroken nation left over. That sounds
like a pick-me up sort of movie! Labyrinth? A girl wishes her baby brother
would be kidnapped by goblins and is nearly seduced by a man at least three
times her age. Well, it was David Bowie, so that is okay, since the man is 60
years old and can still look sexy in a pair of tights. And Disney? Was anyone
not emotionally scarred with Simba found the body of his dead father? How
about when the villain Ursula was speared through her chest by the hero in The
Little Mermaid? Hey, kiddies, disembowelment is fun!
Disney movies have steadily declined because the directors are so scared some
middle-aged housewife will cause a stir if one scene is judged
“inappropriate.” Want to talk inappropriate? Parents who raise their children
to be close minded and hateful. Parent’s who are so happy to throw the blame
onto everyone else for their children’s terrible upbringing, like the school
systems or video games, or “inappropriate” movies. That is inappropriate, not
Scooby Doo, or Harry Potter. It is no wonder the youth of today is so obsessed
with throwing themselves into fantasy, what do they have to look forward to in
reality? Terrorism, war, hate crimes, starvation, and a world of adults that
are caught up in a desire to prove themselves right, and are too blind to see
how these limitations upon entertainment is stealing away innocence, not
protecting it.
I miss the good old days, but at least I can say I had a childhood. So, meet
me, once spring arrives by the tire swing for some skinny dipping. We’re only
young once! |
