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It was December of 1992 and I was six, and "Aladdin" was in theaters. My sister and I weren't seeing it. My mother couldn't afford the tickets. I remember this because the three of us were sitting in the car and she cried + apologized for not being able to take us. (thread) https://twitter.com/KristyPuchko/status/1334573961531764745
The strange thing is that I don't think I had even heard of "Aladdin" until she said anything. Maybe? I'm not sure. But I don't remember feeling like we were expecting to see it. I don't remember being disappointed. But to her, I think it felt like one more way she had failed us.
This was in the final year of her marriage to her second husband--our first "stepfather"--and there were reasons the three of us were in this car and not back at our place with him and his two kids. He was very abusive, and these car rides felt like a break.
So, we were sitting there in the car while she was contemplating how to get us out of this situation, but by now, it had become almost a weekly ritual, which was not lost on us, obviously. So, we're sitting there, and she starts crying and says the thing about "Aladdin".
And then, while crying, she says: "You've never been to the movies," which was true. My sister and I had not been to a movie theater up to that point in our short lives. I remember saying "that's okay", and my sister said the same and put her little hand on my mother's arm.
He left early one morning a year later with his kids. Packed up and went away. It was random. I had woken up and walked into the living room as he was carrying things out to the car. I looked out the door, and the car was full. A bunch of bags + boxes + his kids were in there.
When he walked back up and saw me standing there, he hissed to not say anything and go back to bed, which I did and listened to the front door close a bit later. I quietly ran to the front window and watched them drive away. And I knew what it meant, and I was relieved.
Fast forward to December of 1994, and the three of us were living alone in a trailer in Harker Heights, Texas. It was definitely an improvement. Things were looking up. And a sure sign of that was when she told us we were going to see "The Lion King". Early Christmas present.
Again, going to the movies felt like a luxury. I have no idea what tickets cost in that particular area back then, but I just knew it wasn't something we did. But for the first time ever, my sister and I were going, and I could tell this was a significant moment for my mother.
I'll never forget walking into the lobby of the theater and being enveloped by the smell of popcorn. It was exciting and comforting in a way that I can't describe. And we didn't even get concessions! It was still a great memory. I love that smell.
We took our seats in what--at the time--felt like an *enormous* room and there's the big screen which I had never seen before in person and it seemed SO BIG. People were streaming in and taking their seats. The room went dark. The previews began.
Some of you might remember the previews they showed. One was the two brothers talking about going to Disneyland, which looked cool as hell and, of course, impossibly distant. I remember the adults in the theater laughing at "in real life, Goofy could beat up Dad!"
The other notable one was "Pocahontas", which, as many folks have noted, has its problematic elements, to say the very least, but to this 8 year-old kid, it was one of the more gorgeous things I'd ever seen. Judy Kuhn singing "Colors of the Wind" in that montage was magical.
And then it hit. Imagine you're watching this opening scene for the very first time and it's your first movie at a theater, with surround sound, and you're 8 years old. Blew me away. The gasps of the audience. The laughter at Timon & Pumbaa. The collective joy of it all. Amazing.
My mother died this year. She was quite abusive throughout my childhood, and we never reconciled. She never apologized. I struggle with complicated feelings in the wake of her passing. The abuse, as horrific as it was, came from the same person who struggled herself quite a lot.
And amid all the awfulness that came rushing back to me from memory, there were moments like this. I remember not being able to pinpoint her emotion that day, and in retrospect, it was simply relief. She had finally given us a healthy and happy childhood experience for once.
And it was authentic: I was a very happy child that day. I want to go back and relive that experience. I want to be able to pretend again that things would be okay, if only for a few hours in a darkened theater with joyous strangers and their families. It was wonderful. /thread
