From around the age I was eight up until I was twelve or so, I was pretty big on Peter Pan.
It seems contradictory to me, because all I wanted to do when I was a child was be a grown-up. My mother would constantly say I was always in such a hurry to be older, that I wasnapos;t living the days as I was supposed to. But it was important to be taken seriously, and to have the ability to make my own decisions and assert my independence.
Thereapos;s a line in the movie of it that always gets to me: There are many different kinds of bravery. Thereapos;s the bravery of thinking of others before oneapos;s self. Now, your father has never brandished a sword nor... Nor fired a pistol, thank heavens. But he has made many sacrifices for his family, and put away many dreams. He put them in a drawer. And sometimes, late at night, we take them out and admire them. But it gets harder and harder to close the drawer... And he does. And that is why he is brave.
Why I would take to a storybook concerning a boy that never wanted to grow up is still beyond me. I loved it. Very much so. Every boy and girl I saw on the streets felt like one of the Lost Boys, the kind the world has forsaken and you donapos;t understand why.
Later on, though, you realize the silliness of fairy tales.
I dressed up as Tinkerbell when I was ten, even though I didnapos;t have blonde hair and she wasnapos;t really my favorite character. My mother was kind enough to be Mrs. Darling. My hands were stickly sweet and there was a lot of laughter. We stayed in, watching ghost movies and handing candy to the trick or treaters.
I was silly enough to genuinely believe a faerie died somewhere if you said you didnapos;t believe in them and some nights Iapos;d go, I do believe, I do, I do.
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