When I went home to San Diego a few weekends ago, the sky
literally seemed to be falling. Fires raged just a few miles from
my house, and looking up revealed only a fog of smoke, a glowing
red ball that used to be the sun and a steady stream of falling
ash. Like snow, only different.
Only after the passage of several weeks can I now put it all
into words. At the time, I could only describe the scene by saying
I felt like I was in an apocalyptic movie ““ think
“Independence Day” ““ playing the random suburban
kid who looks up at the sky, notices something’s wrong, and
runs away as the aliens blow up something big.
This wasn’t the first time I have used movies to describe
my own experience. In fact, I do it quite frequently. There’s
a subtle (and pretentious) art in quickly finding the right film
reference to describe a situation. Quoting “High
Fidelity” at the end of a relationship not only lets others
know how you’re feeling, but also shows off your knowledge of
popular culture. My brother acknowledged my reference to
“Independence Day” with an approving, knowing
chuckle.
But allusions are an ironic art: We take more pride in letting
others describe a situation for us than we do in coming up with the
right words ourselves.
At home in San Diego a few weekends ago, the sky also
metaphorically seemed to be falling. Concern burned energy faster
than a Cadillac Escalade, and looking around revealed a father with
tennis elbow and a mother who might have breast cancer. My mother
might have breast cancer. Like a fever, only different.
The doctors aren’t sure yet. They’re running tests.
I still can’t really put it into words. I can’t find
that magical cinematic allusion to explain my feelings for me. It
doesn’t exist.
I’m not Renee Zellweger in “One True Thing,”
guilt-tripped into caring. My mom won’t be replaced by Julia
Roberts, as in “Stepmom.” Surely I’m not Shirley
MacLaine in “Terms of Endearment,” pounding my fist on
the nurses’ station, demanding they give my daughter her pain
killers.
When it comes to matters that are deeply personal, I don’t
want my emotions to double as a punch line. That belittles them.
That doesn’t give them enough credit. If movies are deemed
good because they convey emotion accurately, they’re useless
when I’m trying to understand how I feel, when I’m
trying to understand what I want to say.
When dealing with emotions, it’s almost empowering to be
free of other writers’ words and want to form my own.
It’s also scary because now I have to really think.
It’s very easy to point to someone else and nod in
concurrence, and because it’s smiled upon as a way of
communicating, it’s even easier.
But this situation isn’t watching the sky and seeing
smoke, not really believing that I personally am in jeopardy. It is
watching the fire in my living room, across from me at the dinner
table and next to me in my heart, mind and memory.
For now I have to be content saying I don’t know how to
describe what I’m feeling. I have to be content saying I
don’t know how she’ll react to this dilemma, and I
don’t know how I’ll react to her reaction.
When I went home to San Diego a few weekends ago, the sky seemed
to be falling. I’m sorry, Mom. I love you.
E-mail Tracer at jtracer@media.ucla.edu.