Confronting the Dark Lord
Written By Alice Bradley
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Then, one fateful day a couple of weeks later, Scott headed down to the basement and brought up his beloved Star Wars lunch box. It was dented and broken, the hinges no longer functioning, wrapped in masking tape to keep the parts together.
A label was taped across the top: FIGURES. Henry danced around Scott as he pried the box open. The top popped off, and there was every known character from the Star Wars universe. Princess Leia. Luke Skywalker. Darth Vader. Han Solo. Han Solo in Hoth battle gear. Boba Fett. Death Star Engineer #6. And ships too: X-wings and A-wings and B-wings; every variety of wing was crammed into that tin lunch box.
"Maybe we could give him just a few of these?" I said, but Henry was already elbow-deep in the lunch box, hyperventilating. "What do you think, buddy?" Scott said, but Henry could barely hear him.
I fought the intrusion of all this Star Wars paraphernalia for a while — couldn't we have waited? Wasn't he too young for it? Didn't most toddlers still watch Bob the Builder? But then, it didn't matter if we never bought a single Star Wars toy; Henry's Fisher-Price gas station morphed into the Death Star and his tea set became the Millennium Falcon. Scott went to work, and I was left alone with Henry's incessant questions regarding ancillary Star Wars characters I had never heard of. Right from the beginning I assumed the role of ignoramus. No way was I going to get roped into this. "I have no idea who Bib Fortuna or Bell Biv DeVoe or whoever is," I said. "Let's call your father."
And so it has gone for the past three years since Henry's introduction to the world of stormtroopers and rebel alliances. Sure, he's since enjoyed the company of other men: Superman, Yellow Power Ranger, the Decepticons. But he'll always be a Star Wars fan because that's his connection to his father. And there is no end to the universe of Star Wars entertainment matter. When they run out of films to watch, there are books; when they read the books to tatters, there are fan sites, animations, short videos. Almost every morning they find something to watch online. It doesn't matter to Henry how bad it is, as long as lightsabers are featured and he can sit on his dad's lap while he watches.
These days, according to Henry, only Scott can play Star Wars right, and I consider this to be an excellent development. This is payback for my years of conjugal loyalty despite my now searing hatred of George Lucas and all he has wrought. I have been known to exaggerate my cluelessness in order to encourage this line of thinking in Henry. I was told long ago that I didn't play Star Wars correctly because I talked about feelings, so now I'm sure to mention some character's emotion the moment my butt hits the carpet. "Let's play Darth Vader Is Sad Because No One Likes Him!" I suggest, and am abruptly exiled from the playroom, forced to read a book by myself or enjoy a hot bath while Scott gets to rebuild the Death Star.
Despite how much Henry clearly worships him, Scott feels guilty much of the time. Guilty that he has to work late, guilty that he's not doing enough for Henry or that what he is doing, he's not doing right. He can't give Henry all the time he demands, and as he nears 6, Henry's needs are increasing by the day. No human being can give Henry what he really wants, which is for time to stop so that he and his dad can lose themselves in an alternate universe, one where their lightsabers really work and their best friend is a Wookiee.
Scott can't always be here, but when he is, he's up for anything his son proposes, time (and space/time continuum) permitting. And Henry knows it. When Scott's at work, I watch Henry plotting new adventures for them to play. Because Scott is a film editor, Henry understands that his father "makes movies," so now Henry plans the movies he'll make. At bedtime he tells Scott all about his newest idea. "It's called Return of the Empire, Strike Three: Galaxy of the Jedi." (We hope that Lucas doesn't sue him for plagiarism.) More than anything, more than being a Jedi, Henry wants to be just like his dad. So he must be doing something right.
About the Author: Alice Bradley lives with her husband, son, cat, and dog in New Jersey, where she writes the blog Finslippy. She is still trying to wash shellacked cinnamon bun out of her hair.
