Updated: May 20, 2020
Originally Published: May 4, 2015
—Mom, have you seen any Star Wars films?
—I can’t remember.
—No, which ones? One, two, three, four, five, or six?
—Maybe one?
—A New Hope?
—I think so.
—Did you see the one where Han Solo gets frozen in carbonite?
—I believe so?
—And Princess Leia comes to rescue him, and guess who she brings along?
—I have no idea.
—GUESS.
—Luke?
—Nope.
—Then I don’t know.
—GUESS! Here’s a hint: he’s big, hairy, and makes a sound like HNEUW HNEUW HNEUW.
—Chewbacca?
—YES! And she also brings R2-D2 and C-3PO.
—R2D-TOON!
—No, it’s R2-D2. No N at the end.
—Mom! It’s R2D-TOON!
—If you say so.
—Did you see the one where Darth Vader fights the Emperor?
—I don’t think I did.
—He does! The Emperor is a Sith.
—Are Siths bad?
—Yeah, they’re the villains, while the Jedis are the heroes.
—Oh.
—Did you watch the one where Yoda dies?
—I can’t recall.
—Matthew has seen all ten movies. He even watched number nine!
—Honey, there are only six films.
—No, he said he saw the ninth one!
—But there are only six!
—Mom! He SAW NUMBER NINE!
—Okay, he claimed to see the ninth one.
—And in the first film, guess who you meet? Anakin Skywalker when he is just one year old. What number?
—Nine?
—YES! And you know who he becomes?
—Who?
—I’ll give you a hint: his name starts with DV.
—Darth Vader?
—YES! And there’s another character too!
—I don’t know.
—Guess!
—I don’t want to.
—OK, I’ll give you a hint: he has four lightsabers.
—General Grievous!
—YES! How did you know?
—Because you told me yesterday.
And the day before that. And the day before that. An unending series of days stretching back to last summer when my son, against my better judgment, was introduced to the first three installments of George Lucas’s iconic Star Wars saga.
Confession time: I navigated the first 38 years of my life without ever watching a single Star Wars film. Well, that’s not entirely true; I vaguely remember being dragged to see Return of the Jedi, but I recall nothing except being utterly confused about the plot and the excitement surrounding it. Was this really what everyone had been waiting for?
Initially, I resisted because I was six, and I convinced myself it was a simple boy-girl thing. My older brother and two cousins were boys, obsessed with spaceships and light sabers. I was a girl interested in gymnastics, baking, and reading Little House on the Prairie. End of story.
But that wasn’t the case. I soon realized that many of my classmates, both girls and boys, were fans of the films. This pattern continued with each subsequent release, even two decades later when the prequels debuted. I began to understand that my disinterest stemmed more from my inability to connect with popular culture than from my gender.
In seventh grade, while other girls were collecting magazines like Teen and Tiger Beat and singing every Duran Duran song, I couldn’t even recognize Simon Le Bon if he were right in front of me. In an effort to fit in, I posted a picture of Andrew Ridgeley in my locker and pretended to prefer the darker half of Wham! while secretly enjoying my Chorus Line LP.
Eventually, I embraced my status as a pop culture outlier—the only North American child of the 1980s who hadn’t seen the movies. It became a fun topic at parties; I could always draw a gasp from the crowd when I revealed that I had never experienced what my ex-girlfriend, an English professor, called one of the “sacred texts of our generation.” Sure, there’s the Old Testament, the New Testament, Ulysses, and… The Empire Strikes Back. Whatever.
I had every intention of maintaining my Lucas refusenik status for life, just to prove that you can lead a fulfilling life without ever watching the series. Then I had kids. And when our sperm donor—a film and cultural studies professor—decided to step in, everything changed.
“Mom!” my older son exclaimed one day after returning from a sleepover. “Rob showed us this movie! Do you know what a lightsaber is?”
Now, I have a 6-year-old and his 3-year-old brother who are completely obsessed. It’s lightsaber this and lightsaber that, along with Halloween plans to be General Grievous, “Mom, which movies have you seen?” A few mornings ago, I walked in on my boys, the older one wielding a toy lightsaber while the younger used a broom. “Come, Luke, join me on the dark side, and we will rule the universe together,” said the oldest. “OK!” replied his brother. And now, I find myself subjected to endless Star Wars quizzes by my 6-year-old. If you’re reading this, I might still be alive: send help.
By summer’s end, I gave in. I agreed to watch the original trilogy, much to my sons’ excitement. I secretly hoped to find myself transformed, enlightened, perhaps even mesmerized. I’ve seen the joy that the Star Wars universe brings, and I was envious. I longed to feel that childlike wonder again. Listening to others discuss the films is like hearing about a magic elixir. They seem so… happy about it, and I love happy.
But, it didn’t happen. Maybe I was too old, too jaded. Perhaps the advances in special effects over the past 30 years hardened my heart. Or maybe it’s just that my most vivid memories of Carrie Fisher are less about Princess Leia and more about her role in Postcards From the Edge. A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back were entertaining, but not enough to keep me from checking my email or volunteering to step out during the last ten minutes of the latter to pick up the sperm donor, who sighed when I told him I walked out on George. It’s a common regret for those who delay experiencing something monumental: when the moment finally arrives, you can’t help but wonder what all the excitement was about.
That said, I’ll admit it’s nice to finally know what everyone else is talking about. As tedious as my son’s Star Wars quizzes can be, I shudder to think how much worse they would be without any context. While I may not consider these films sacred texts, watching them has surprisingly enriched my reading experience. When Mary Karr writes about a dancer evoking “the big hairy Wookie who follows the hero around,” I can now visualize it. Similarly, when Newfoundland novelist Jessica Grant mentions a woodcut resembling “Han Solo when he gets frozen by Darth Vader,” I understand what she means. And this, I must concede, enhances my reading experience.
For Halloween, I’m not sure how we’ll manage a General Grievous costume—after all, he has four arms, which I suspect is a clever ploy by my 6-year-old to score four lightsabers. But I hope we can persuade both kids to dress as Darth Vader. Big and little Darth Vader. “You should all go as Darth Vader,” my acupuncturist suggested, and I could picture my sons, their two moms, and their sperm donor all clad in black, lightsabers raised, ready to conquer the universe.
And honestly, it wasn’t a bad image. Not bad at all.