I go to that memory because it holds something I can never really get back to. When I sit on my couch and watch the same flickering image it just isn’t there. I’ve seen too much dark, been part of too much pain, and I have honestly grown into an adult. The remakes are not what I want, they call back to the wrong parts, touch on feelings that no one remembers, or they look so unrecognizable that you’re not even sure what you’re supposed to be feeling. If you can’t bottle what made the original great how to do expect us to applaud you? Our generation has had so much taken from us that when you bastardize our memories it starts to hurt on a much different level.
The generation I am part of is stuck firmly in a plane of arrested development. We were told our future was bright, that as long as we tried hard, ate our vitamins, and went to college everything we could ever want would be waiting for us to just take hold of it. We were not the first generation of Saturday morning cartoon watchers, of sugared cereal eaters, or kids that dreamed of going to space. We are however the generation one step behind. Above us someone thought that Saturday mornings should be more about making money and less about making memories. If you can’t have more advertisements per episode you might as well give up on children under twelve, am I right?
I won’t debate the health of the relationship between sugar and younglings but what the hell happened to the toys? I had an understanding, with myself, that I had to eat until I got to the toy, it wasn’t earned if I just opened it from the bottom and took the prize. Finding treasure, even in the form of a spoon that changes color in milk, is about the hunt more than the find. Why did we let them take this away from us?
When we dreamed as children was the dream about money? I never thought about how much the big house would cost, how I would fund my race car driving career, or how much money goes into sending someone to Mars. Those things were just there, part of the kit that was given to you when you finally became an adult; some assembly required of course but because you were an adult you were equipped. You were the one who could just go to the store and buy that new bike, the giant TV, and a shopping cart full of groceries. I mean I didn’t come from a home where any of those things were normal. I saw my parents work long hours and multiple jobs to make ends meet. I didn’t have all the things I thought were waiting for me when I became them but yet I still dreamed.
We get told that it’s not about the things you surround yourself with but the people who you share those things with. On one hand I can agree with this but on the other I have a box in the bottom of the closet that is full of things I can’t throw away but only look at when it comes time to move. A box of memories for me alone to bask in and remember times, places, and certain people who shall remain nameless. A box of nostalgia that can’t be bought by and sold and exploited. I think we all have boxes at the bottom of the closet. Some of those boxes exist in our minds, they are full of memories, cartoon theme songs, color changing spoons, and all the battles won by colored pieces of plastic over the fate of slowly growing colder dirty water.
I want to believe that we can set our children up to create those boxes. That they may dream a little bigger, that we won’t try and capitalize on what makes them happy, that we wont allow the mistakes of our parents to bleed poison into their generation. I fear that by the time we have the power we will have thrown out those boxes in the last move, we will forget about the way things felt, that the future is still ours to mold. I don’t want to have to give up on nostalgia…