As an old Psych student, I’m a firm believer in the environment dictates our development theory. Furthermore, as an adopted child, I’ve noticed that I’ve got a lot in common with my father (sarcastic sense of humour, blatant disrespect for most formalities, a knack for photography, a stubborn streak and fiery temper, among others). And so…whatever in my childhood is to blame for my… weird messy albeit very entertaining life?
Let’s start with childhood heroes. Mine ranged from the Princess Astronaut to Alice in Wonderland, which might explain the somewhat bipolar-like persona I’ve so carefully crafted over the years.
One of the first book I remember reading is Mary Poppins. The best nanny of all of London is actually to blame for my first brush (but unfortunately not last) with death. Soon after watching the movie, my mother found me on the edge of the balcony with an umbrella and before she could do anything, I jumped. Of course, the fall wasn’t that high, but for an unnaturally small 7-year-old, it was quite the ordeal. And now… while I do get the fascination for that iconic character, if I had been Mary Poppins, those kids would have been duct-taped in the closet faster than you can say supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.
But to be honest, and I don’t know what child psychiatrists will make of that, the one book I remember reading over and over and over again is probably Robin Hood. I had (and still have) an unhealthy obsession with the outlawed crusader. Of course I don’t rob the rich to give to the poor, but there is something in me that snaps whenever I’m witness to some blatant injustice. While I might not be a efficient with a bow and arrows, to be fair, I’m pretty sure I wear the tights a lot better than he ever did.
Another unhealthy obsession is Alice in Wonderland. Alice is no good role models and I don’t think she strived to be. I’m quite sure she would have been horrified to be seen as such, actually. But nonetheless, she’s one of my childhood heroine, for the best, less and the rest. I suppose it can account for my insatiable curiosity and weirdly spacy interrogation skills and my being unfazed in the face of insanity. Oh and the infatuation with white rabbit and pocket watch. Although I’m proud to say I’ve outgrown the blue-dress-white-apron-mary-jane look.
As I grew up, it started to become a little more complex to find role models in the medias, which is completely normal, I hope. I’m trying to distance myself of fictionally constructed characters to find my own mess of a character. And as most of my childhood models are better fitted for children, it was time to let go of them. But to replace them hasn’t really been an option, seeing as age-appropriate models aren’t that easy or obvious to find. I went through the chick flicks phase, and while Cher Horowitz is an adorable ditz of a sweetheart, it’s a bit hard to conciliate my ever-the-feminist-crusader temper with damsel-in-distress persona so often displayed in movies. No luck either in action movies. Jean Grey is all for female empowerment but for those of us without mutants abilities, it’s not easy to channel her. Not to mention all that control/Phoenix issue.
I shall be a modern Emma, doomed by a lack of proper matchmaking skills and a bit too much vehement in my opinions, or a Marianne, destined to realize that to be right in the end, I had to be irresistibly wrong before, or even a Natasha, poor creature of fickle tastes but passionately resolute even in the worst of decisions. I reckon it means I’ll ultimately get my every heart’s desires, but only after being terribly wickedly foolish and much sufferings. Don’t quite know what the proper emotional response to that prospect.
I’ll never be a Mother Theresa or a Marie Curie but I’ll always aspire to be a tiny bit like them. Which is a very good thing.
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