A Father's Journal, Vol 2, No. 2
September, 1995
by Forrest Seymour
"Play the old song, Sam. You know which one I mean."
And as Sam starts into "As Time Goes By, Ms. Bergman steals my heart and my sympathy. Such bitter-sweet agony she feels, such depth, such melodrama!
Then my daughter, Emily, points out the obvious.
"Hand!" she yells as the camera focuses briefly on Ilsa's glass, and not only is my revery shattered, but so is that of the hundred or so other movie goers out this Autem night for a taste of old Casablanca. We bundle-up Emily and her assorted appliances, the food, the toys, and slink from the balcony. We have seen the movie before, many times of course, and do not wish to disturb the audience's enjoyment. It has been many months since we could take Emily to a movie; we can wait a bit longer.
Strangely enough, it seemed that much of the audience was not familiar with "Casablanca." They still laughed at the jokes, as if surprised, while we old hands just smile fondly. Though it was dark in the theater when we arrived, the other movie goers only dark shapes to be avoided, I suspect that many of them were undergraduates from the local state college, perhaps more familiar with Bevis and Butthead than with Rick and Ilsa.
Will these new adults ever come to appriciate the black and white beauty I see in this scratchy old film, I wonder as I leave their laughter behind. They have time, I reasure myself as the cool night welcomes us, to learn to love, selectively, some of the old icons of our culture as I have, and as Emily, happy in my arms to be out in the night, may too.
At 18 months, Emily remains primarily within her mother and my orbit. Though she has friends and aquaintances we know little or nothing about, most of her interactions with our culture are mediated by her parents' values. This of course will change, probably sooner than we know.
When will she become aware of the trials of OJ, the severed Bobbits, the bloodless brutality of hollywood death? And when will the realities of economic injustice, war-profits and the tyranny of wealth begin to chill her small bones?
Will it be too soon, or too late?
Or will she care at all about the things I love? She is these days on the edge of the world, getting to know people and places and her own opinions. She has learned that to say "I don't like" is to get her parent's attention. For is it not our responsibility to respect her likes and dislikes, and to encourage her to learn them?
There is a feeling in the air these days that she could go either way, though in fact there are an infinite number of ways to go. Yet it seems like she is now more able to choose, to see her life and her parents and to decide much more exactly where she, Emily, fits in.
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