TV and Me

Growing up, the first thing my dad did when he woke up was turn on the TV, and it stayed on all day, even if he wasn’t watching it. I think he liked the white noise the TV provided.

My grandma was the same way. The TV was on in her house at all hours, including while she slept. I have distinct childhood memories of sitting on the couch with her watching movie after movie. Movies that were, in retrospect, probably not age appropriate, but we watched them anyway. She had a tendency to give away the most pivotal parts just before they happened. 

“And this Yolanda ends up shooting her!”, she exclaimed as we ate pasta from TV trays while watching Selena.

Being too young to remember the tragic story of the singer, I watched the rest of the movie in nervous anticipation, hoping grandma had gotten it wrong. She hadn’t. I watched that movie over and over as a kid, tears rolling down my face as I witnessed Selena’s devastating fate unfold. 

The Wizard of Oz was my favorite movie. I had a very active imagination as a kid. I guess you could say I was a bit of a daydreamer. I even went as Dorothy for Halloween one year. While waiting for the VHS tape to rewind, I’d dig that costume out of the closet and put it on - a blue and white checkered dress sewn by my grandma, slip on shoes that my mom had spray painted red and covered in glitter, and a plastic red basket with a stuffed dog inside that I, of course, had named Toto. I’d dance around the living room imagining my very own yellow brick road. Anytime there was bad weather, I’d secretly hope for a twister that would transport me to the magical land of Oz. 

Some of this pretending got me in trouble. While watching an episode of Blossom that dealt with a sibling’s drug use, I sat at my grandma’s kitchen table with a notebook, pretending to journal like Blossom did. I wrote down the words verbatim, not really understanding what I was even writing, and tucked the pages of my notebook into my lunch box. When my mom was cleaning out my lunch box later that evening, she called me into the kitchen demanding to know who Anthony was and if I was hanging out with people who did drugs. I immediately burst into tears trying to explain how I was only pretending. Grandma, fortunately, was able to corroborate my story. But I wasn’t allowed to watch Blossom after that.

My parents loved the movie, Forrest Gump. They even bought the CD of the soundtrack for the movie that my mom would play as she was cleaning or when they had friends over. I was fascinated by the character Jenny. As I waited to take a shower one evening, I spotted my plastic guitar in the corner of the basement. Feeling inspired, I tossed off my robe, grabbed the guitar and began to belt out the lyrics to Bob Dylan’s, Blowin’ in the Wind, all while completely nude. I assume my parents wavered somewhere between amusement and wondering if their first born was a complete nutter.

But mostly, TV felt like a comfort, something that brought us together. We spent many a Friday evening watching ABC’s TGIF programming block with shows like Boy Meets World, Step by Step, The Wonder Years, and Sister, Sister. On Saturday mornings, my sister and I watched cartoons and reruns of Schoolhouse Rock. “I’m just a bill. Yes, I’m only a bill. And I’m sitting here on Capitol Hill”. 

When my cousin, Robert, passed away, my family and I gathered on the couch in the basement watching re-reruns of Friends. Seeing Rachel, Ross, and company navigating relatable problems like dating, finding work, and trying not to go broke in the big city felt soothing; a place where everything is fine and ultimately works out in the end. It was a dose of normalcy that acted like a salve against the painful reality we weren’t quite ready to deal with yet.

Ages thirteen and fourteen were something of a glorious in-between time of life. I was a bit too old for summer rec but not quite old enough to hold down a summer job. I’d wake up at 7:00 every morning, just in time to see my mom off to work and settle in for several episodes of Dawson’s Creek. For the next three hours, I’d be absorbed in the love triangle of Dawson, Pacey, and Joey, secretly rooting that Joey and Pacey would make it in the end. Dawson was always a bit whiny for my liking. After that, I’d make myself a sandwich, call up one of my friends (on a landline of all things), and bike the mile into town where I would stay until suppertime. 

Nowadays, I think more about the bigger picture when it comes to watching TV. In what ways is it not only comforting but potentially harmful as well? What ideas do these too-simple sitcoms promote that misalign with the real world? How might time be better spent in general? Clearly these questions merit more attention than I gave them as a child, but in the meantime, I cannot change the fact that, since I can remember, TV has been like a soundtrack to my life. As the world continues to spin, and problems become more complex, TV can and often does feel like a welcome respite. Presumably the millions streaming “The Office” for the 14th time agree on some level as well. 

I don’t know where I land exactly on the net impact of this, but like the little kid who desperately wanted to be transported to the land of Oz, I certainly understand it.