okay, i don’t hate kids. i think they’re sort of funny. i like that you can talk to them like an adult and they’ll make sounds like they understand. i taught one kid “phosphorescence” and he looked at me and said, “they could just call it glowing if it means something that glows.” the kid undid the entire science community in one sentence.
but i hate kids.
or really, i hate how they’ve always been expected from me.
when i was five i was given “babies.” i hated the hardness of dolls, disposed of them for dramatic stories between stuffed animals. i knew how to wrap, feed, and care for a baby before i could spell my last name. when i was nine i was already “watching the kids”. i was only four years older than my cousins were. i wanted to go out and play. instead i was expected to have responsibility. by the time i was thirteen all of my friends had told me about how many children they were going to have in their twenties.
my hips were “child-bearing” hips. my brother was a scientist, or a fireman, or a steamroller. i was going to make a good housewife, or mom, or nanny, or mom, or mom, or mom.
and when my body hurt, i was told it wasn’t really my body, not really, it belonged to my future children. i couldn’t cut or snip or tie anything; i was trapped by the potential energy that hung above me. a boulder, threatening. i couldn’t get tattoos, because what would i tell my children? i couldn’t kiss a girl, because what would i tell the children? i couldn’t be risky or wild or anything but a lady, because what about the children?
and when i said “i don’t want children” – not biologically, at least, not when cancer and depression and a whole other host of terrible things lives inside me – do you know what they said? “it’ll change, wait and see” “it’s not bad” “you’ll get used to it” “when you meet the right man” “you don’t want to be lonely”.
i don’t hate kids. i’m great with them.
but then i’m told again that my life will be forfeit to them – something in me snaps angry. “wait until you have kids” “you should travel before you have children” “you’ll be more happy.”
i hate kids! i’ve snarled. i don’t mean it at all. but god. please, leave me alone. i don’t want to be a biological mom.
it’s like we’re born with a uterus and told “this is your whole life. your singular purpose. your job.”
i want to be my own purpose. not here for the sake of passing genes on.
harry, first year: oh my gosh, the forbidden forest sounds so dangerous! i’d better stay away from it.
harry, seventh year: so i’m having a barbecue in the forbidden forest, who wants in
So much of TV is way too concerned with being Clever™ right now. There’s this pervasive myth that audiences won’t enjoy a narrative climax unless it’s a total surprise. “Predictable” is always used as a pejorative term when it comes to storytelling, but I think that’s absolute crap, because here’s the thing:
Unpredictability is not, inherently, a virtue. Unpredictability can mean: a) you don’t have a clear grasp on who your characters are or what direction they’re growing. b) you don’t have a clear vision for the story you’re trying to tell. c) you don’t know how to tell the story (for example, you have a Point A and a Point B but the middle is a bunch of disjointed time-wasting filler.
“But,” the showrunners cry, “you never saw that twist coming! We kept you on your toes!” That does not make it good. Cleverness is often just smoke and mirrors designed to distract the audience from a lack of substance; it doesn’t guarantee a worthwhile story. I don’t want to be shocked for the sake of surprise – I want to feel like the experience was worth my time.
I want to be introduced to a character, and then I want to be taken on a journey with that character. I want every step of that journey to teach me who they are; what they believe, what they want, what they hate, what they fear, and what they love, so that when they are faced with a conflict or a critical moment of decision, I understand exactly why they do what they do. I’m hoping their choices in that moment will reveal something truthful and powerful and worth knowing about another person’s experience.
That’s what I want in a story. I genuinely don’t care whether it’s clever or predictable or whatever; I just want a worthwhile journey in which every moment of every episode means something – to the character(s), and to me. That’s what makes serial television satisfying. It has nothing to do with shock or intellect or reinventing the wheel, it’s just about telling the damn story in a way that makes you feel it.
Me when everyone was disappointed in the end of True Detective s1. Me when the only “big moment” at the end of Mad Men was a Coke commercial.
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