For the better part of my childhood, I didn’t have regular access to a television. My parents were early adopters of the “kill your television” movement. Which meant from the time I was small enough to actually remember watching television to right up until I was a teenager there were no screens in our house. This was of course well before personal computers, the internet and phones that primarily serve as angry birds video games. When I mention this in my more academic of circles, people applaud my parents’ decision and imagine a childhood full of classical music, the world’s good books, and discussions about chaos theory. If I had to describe my childhood, I would just use the word chaos, but that’s a story for another day.
I didn’t enjoy not having a television. At school when the other children discussed Mallory and Alex, I played along offering such insightful commentary as “Skippy is my favorite.” and “Alex is cute.” Here and there I was able to sneak in some television–the neighbors down the street, in addition to having a whacked out Felix the Cat clock, also had MTV and my friend Angela would run into the street and holler anytime a Michael Jackson’s video came on. If I was outside at that moment, I’d sprint the half a block to her house and arrive breathless in her living room just in time to see the moon transform movie Michael into Wolfman Jackson. It wasn’t until youtube was invented that I finally saw the first three minutes of the Thriller video, including the disclaimer that it is no way glorifying the occult.
Eventually (right around the time my Dad’s favorite college basketball team made the NCAA tourney) my parents caved and purchased one of the dreaded boxes. There were strict rules attached to it–each of the seven children was allowed one twenty-minute segment of time to pick what to watch. Since all the shows we wanted to watch were at least a half an hour, this meant daily negotiations and minute swapping. And then after dinner ,the television became the sole property of my father–whose priorities seemed always to be sports, star trek, weird PBS shows, and badly-written comedies starring teenage girls. Which meant that when we got married I knew more about basketball than my husband, had a crush on Wesley, an affinity for large red telephone boothes, and an obsession with buying a chair in the shape of a hand (see Out of This World).
The last vestige of my parents’ anti-television campaign became the no television on Sunday rule, which lasted until I left the house at which time all rules seemed to disappear and my younger siblings had the advantage of watching television whenever they wanted (provided my father wasn’t around). If you are an oldest child, you understand this phenomena. There ought to be some scientific law that addresses this issue of the diminishing enforcement of rules once children begin to leave the nest so that by the time the youngest child leaves, the home is in a state of near anarchy.
In my own family I have tried to have the no television on Sunday rule, but it has been amended by my husband to include the important phrase “except for sports.” A few years ago, when my children became old enough to realize the computer could offer entertainment, I had to amend it again to no screens on Sunday. And because I am my father’s daughter and have a little bit of the dictator in me, I had still allowed myself to indulge in screen time on Sundays. This year, tired of being a hypocrite and tired of feeling chained to my laptop and phone, I amended the rule again to include no screens for parents (until the children go to bed).
Sunday was my first test of this new system and it was harder than I thought, but like kale, really good for me. Instead of incessantly checking my email and facebook I made it through 2/3rds of The Glass Castle, played Apples to Apples, baked 80 cookies, watched my husband work on CJ’s bike riding skills, visited with our dear neighbors, and ignored 99 percent of my list.
Of course now it is the first real day the New Year and I’m trying to stave off the panic I feel about all that remains undone. Thank goodness I have those 80 cookies to help me through it.
Courtney, this oldest child of six remembers being invited by our childless neighbors to watch Howdy Doody and Kukla, Fran, and Ollie because our mother wouldn’t allow a television. Later, when we finally got one, my mother put it the unfinished attic where she and my father argued about whether to watch Bishop Sheen or Milton Berle. We had to sit on lawn chairs or the floor. One night my father fell asleep up there while smoking a cigarette and the attic burned. Later, after the insurance had paid for the attic to be renovated into a much needed bedroom for us older three girls, my mother decided to install a clothes dryer in one of the spaces designed for storage. The dryer was unvented and the attic burned again. So, the new tv was finally installed in a back bedroom where my mother fell in love with Palladin. No more fires, but to this day I remember my deceased mother telling me one of her worst memories. As a very young woman she went to a football game with my father. When it was over, one of their friends commented that soon we would watch the games on television and wouldn’t have to brave the cold weather. My mother said a cold chill went through her at this prospect. I remember watching Last Tango as a young mother and when one of my kids came in the den, I stood in front of the tv with my robe open as wide as it would go to block their view while I watched. Later when we had cable, my husband put the kabosh on MTV which grieved my kids. Now my grandchildren watch iCarly which I think is insidious and vile and dangerous to their young, fresh minds. But time marches on and grandmothers chew their tongues and those odious iCarly are subverting still my grandkids’ fresh, sweet imaginations.
Marjorie!
I love that story. Absolutely love it. Burning the attic twice. You have to write an essay about this–and blocking the tv with your robe. I’d grumble about icarly if my kids watched it too.