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How Films Raised My Son

By S. Hileman IannazzoPublished 3 years ago Updated 3 years ago 5 min read
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S. Hileman

He sits, head in hand, elbow on table, tapping his pencil thoughtfully against his tightly clenched lips. He knows the answer but for dramatic appeal he will "act the scene". "Lets see," He says, in a quiet voice (but not so quiet that the audience can’t hear) "Seven plus Four...seven plus four....four plus seven?" Eleven! Eleven! I'm screaming in my head, but will not, absolutely WILL NOT, give him the satisfaction of cracking and saying it outloud. "Must be.....(an even more elongated pause)...Eleven!" he says triumphantly, all the while eyeing me, sizing up my reaction. I play it cool. "Yes eleven it is", I say, "Write it down", I say, wondering how many problems are left on the Goddamn worksheet anyway. My youngest son, a theater brat, without the theater. For Tylee, all the world really is a stage. He is eight years old (eight and a half if you ask him) and from the time he could speak, he has been perfecting his presence. He was born premature and sickly, but with a fierce determination to achieve all of his goals. Just like Frank Sinatra, my little bird also did things his way.

Age 3, I thought it was cute when he asked for red sneakers, "just like Chucky Finsters" (Thanks “Rugrats”, his favorite cartoon).

Age 4, he is no longer Tyler Richard, he is Luke Skywalker, Jedi Knight. With lightsaber in grip, he battles the dark side of the force, (usually the cat) and works to restore peace to the galaxy. It is around this time I notice the wardrobe changes. I’m secretly proud that he knows the movies so well, but find myself doing more laundry than usual.

Age 6, having long since given up life as a Jedi, he is now a hobbit who prefers cheeseburgers to hotdogs, and likes his pillow cool side up. His small size is finally an advantage, and it's all things Lord Of The Rings for the next year or so. Small plastic armies fight small plastic battles, littering the living room with small plastic carnage. With his trusty illuminated sword (which we were forced to mortgage the house to purchase) He patrols the kitchen, clutching the "One Ring" that has been tied to a shoelace around his neck. "My Pree-ssshusssh!" he whispers, his eyes darting back and forth, knees bent, he has become Gollum. I shake my head, and continue doing the dishes. It is fruitless to resist. He IS Frodo Baggins, or Gandalf, or Samwise, or some creepy disfigured Orc, on a journey to restore the "Pree-ssshusssh" to its rightful place in the crack of doom. I play along, marvelling at how creative my youngest son is.

Age 7, The Marty McFly Error. With a red tee shirt and jeans and one borrowed skateboard, he has decorated the couch to resemble a DeLorean. Complete with flux capacitor. We will spend the next six months or so adding "Mc '' to the beginning of most words, McHomework, Mcbedtime, Mcsupper, Mceverything. Even his teacher refers to him as “Marty”. He writes his first fan letter to a Mr. Michael J. Fox. I spend hours on Ebay tracking down everything the man has ever filmed. We enter the 80's time warp with thrillers like Teen Wolf and Midnight Madness. He asks if we can invite Mr. Fox to Thanksgiving. I said sure, but he was a no show.

Age 8, we suffer through a very short lived Rocky phase, boxing gloves included. The cat takes up residence in the back of the closet, renouncing the role of Apollo Creed. This phase is curtailed abruptly with one phone call from Main Street School, apparently inciting a riot is strictly forbidden in the second grade. The gloves are confiscated. Tyler is put on a low violence diet.

“West Side Story”? Released in 1957 It was one of my mothers favorite movies, and when Ty saw it for the first time, he’s enthralled. He embraces the music, the rival gangs, and learns to do high kicks on the kitchen floor while snapping his fingers. He's Riff now, leader of the Jets, rival to Bernado who leads the Sharks. He’ sings along and acts out the final scene, when Tony dies with uncanny realism. An odd film choice for a child his age, but “when you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all the way, from your first cigarette to your last dying day”.

Age 8 1/2, caught in a time warp, my little bird has discovered The Dukes of Hazzard. He wants a belt, with a big silver buckle, the sofa is now the General Lee, complete with a crayoned 01 plastered to cardboard on the side. Sadly, we only own one episode of the Dukes, and we are forced to endure the pilot episode countless times. Thankfully, Santa brings the whole series that Christmas. He wants a bow and arrow. I am secretly pleased he has chosen Beau to emulate, basking in the nostalgia that he was my favorite Duke boy too. The cat has been relegated to Uncle Jesse.

Over the years he’s been Danny Zuko, belting out Summer Nights, he’s been John Rambo, emulating Sly’s deep voice, complete with headband. He's been a Warrior for Halloween with a homemade vest I fashioned to look just like Swans. He’s been an Outsider, favoring PonyBoy Curtis. My little bird, who struggled so hard to be born, who fought and spit and climbed through his milestones, working hard at what came easy to other kids. I brim with pride, and encourage his untouchable imagination. I love every phase and pretend alongside him when he asks.

Today he can quote the most obscure movies, has memorized cast members, and there's no beating him at film trivia. And when he graduated high school with high honors, I had to thank the films and shows that allowed him to learn and excel, in his own unique way.

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About the Creator

S. Hileman Iannazzo

Writers read, and readers write.

I write because I enjoy the process. I hope that you enjoy reading my work.

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