As you’ve probably heard, this amazing girl, Emma Watson, just graduated from Brown University with a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature (oh hey, almost like what I’m also studying!!). What I wanted to remark with my post is that yeah, she IS a great role model, but… has she chosen to be one?
Let me explain myself.
All the articles or comments I’ve read about Watson’s graduation is what a great role model she is and how she, as opposed to many of her fellow “young stars”, has proven to be a wonderful person to look up to. This bothers me. She IS a great person, but do you think she’d want the paparazzi to be camping outside her graduation ceremony? Do you think she wakes up every morning and thinks “oh hey, I’m going to do good things just so I can be a good role model” or “oh hey, I’m going to avoid being seen in public doing this or doing that, just to prove I’m not a wild child”? Well, probably the answer is no.
This post was triggered after reading so many posts about celebrities being role models. I hate it when parents blame the media for the behaviour of their youngsters. I simply HATE it. Bad parents blame Lindsay Lohan for the wild behaviour of their daughters. Bad parents blame videogames for their son shooting people in real life. Bad parents blame their own daughters for being raped after dressing with “slutty short shorts and a tank top”. Definitely, I think bad parents need to blame anyone else but themselves when things go wrong, and celebrities are the easy answer for them.
Yeah, I believe Emma Watson is a great role model, but my point is, parents shouldn’t let their youngsters model themselves after celebrities. Celebrities are human too. Celebrities will fuck up. Celebrities will be photographed drunk after a night out. Celebrities will graduate, but may also fail at least once in their lives (we all do. The difference here is that their failures are merciless shown on TV and all over the Internet).
Congrats, Emma! May you reign for many many years and I hope you don’t fuck up, because the media wolves will come and tear you apart.
I like documentaries. That is another thing that my father managed to make me like. During the weekends, after having lunch, he’d sit in front the TV and instead of watching a film or taking a nap (well, sometimes he took a nap too), he’d watch a documentary.
Documentaries were his favorites and he always made me watch –not that I didn’t like them, it’s just that a younger me preferred watching The Princess Diaries instead of a documentary about fish. But I ended up liking them.
My point is, now that he’s not here anymore, I still like to watch some every once in a while. Today I discovered on TV this marvelous one “Monkey Planet” by the BBC One with George McGawin as a presenter. I loved the cinematography and the music (I heard instrumental versions of “Chelsea Dagger” by The Fratellis, “Drunk” by Ed Sheeran and “That’s Not My Name” by The Ting Tings, among others, playing in the documentary).
I truly truly recommend this one to you -it’s fascinating, clever and enlightening at the same time.
I’ve been having weird dreams where my dad comes back from the dead and casually sits at home on his favorite sofa. He just unlocks the door, comes in, goes there and sits in silence. He turns on the TV and surfs channels until he finds some kind of documentary. Then, he relaxes and ignores me when I look at him stunned from the living’s door. “Dad? I thought you died?”, I find myself asking. He only looks at me with a calm smile “I thought so too. Now I’m back”. I just shrug and sit next to him, feeling the warmth of his body. It’s strange, because I remember holding his hand until the warmth of his body left him, leaving room for the cold. But when I dream, I see him alive, as if nothing had happened. It’s strange, because I perfectly remember how everything happened. I remember the start, the taxi drive, the ambulance and the emergency room. I remember the ICU, the doctors and the hospital robes. I remember the feeling of a sanitary mask over the skin of my lips. I remember the first night I spent on an armchair next to his hospital bed, holding his hand and barely sleeping. And I remember the last morning, when he could barely breathe.
But now, after my dreams, I want to remember him sitting on his favorite sofa watching documentaries, eating his dinner, asking for Coke (the drink, not the drug) and giving me little life lessons. I also want to remember how he looked when he laughed, when he really laughed, not when he just made a funny comment and briefly laughed. The laugh I will remember is the one when he could barely breathe and tears streamed down his cheeks.
Ridiculously enough, it seems that during the last couple days of his life he also had tears streaming down his cheeks, and he also could barely breathe. Life has a strange way of turning things around.
Like now, when life seems to want me to dream of my father being alive and happy at home.
Maybe it’s a sign that he’s happy, and at home.
Or maybe it’s a sign that I’m going mad.
I think it’s very healthy to spend time alone. You need to know how to be alone and not be defined by another person.
I think I’ve always despised doing the typical things of kids my age. I didn’t go to a club until was 18, I never pretended to be older than I was, and I played with dolls even when I was 14. I had friends younger than me, and I enjoyed spending time with them, inventing and narrating tales. I also loved spending time with myself, laying on my grandparents’ huge bed and reading on hot summer afternoons. I loved sewing (my grandma taught me to do pretty flowers and I also sewed mini dresses for my dolls). When I grew up, I spent my afternoons after class alone in my room, watching films, reading and writing. I invented stories, read every magazine in sight and listened to music. I’ve never been afraid of spending time alone -well, except at nights when my dad decided to go out and left me alone until midnigh: that terrified me.
What I mean with all this rambling is that spending time alone is very healthy. I learned what I liked, what I disliked and that I can actually have fun alone. It’s not that I don’t love being with those I like –my friends always cheer me up and I love being with them doing whatever– but I also love being alone. Spending time with myself has taught me that I probably wouldn’t need anyone else to “validate” my life or give meaning to my time. I’m totally capable of having fun alone.
That’s why I’ve always disliked the thought of a girl needing a boyfriend. No, thanks. I can do things by myself. Give me the dvd of John Hughes’ “Pretty in Pink”, chocolate and iced tea and I’ll have a perfect evening by myself.
I’ve been thinking of my social skills -which are pretty deplorable. It’s almost as if I had a “social battery” that slowly runs out when I spend too much time with people around me. I get to be around people, yeah, but I need to go home after a while to recharge that social battery. I need to shut the doors, turn on my favorite song and lose myself in my unimportant thoughts.
Then, being alone is not so bad. You should all try it.