Ah, summer vacation. The sacred three-
month period of underpaid jobs, midday naps
and in all honesty, too much TV. Although
some may find this assessment pessimistic, it’s
an accurate summary of my past two summers
(minus being able to secure a job — sorry Mom).
Last summer, constrained from most
productive activities by the pandemic and
low personal funds, I opted to embrace the
latter pursuit of TV-watching. My program of
choice, you may ask? The one and only “Rick
Steves’ Europe.”
This wasn’t my first time watching the PBS
travel show. In fact, its jovial theme song has
been ingrained in my head for what seemed like
eons. Over the last few years, my grandmother
came over to my house almost daily so my mom
could care for her. She suffered a decade-long
battle with Alzheimer’s and it was practically
impossible to pass the time with things she
still enjoyed. Bingo and puzzles, the usual fare
for elderly pastimes, were a no-go. Although
my grandmother used to paint beautiful
Monet-inspired landscapes, she couldn’t quite
operate the paintbrush anymore. Even going
on walks around the neighborhood was out
of the question. The only activity that seemed
feasible was watching TV.
So each afternoon, like clockwork, I parked
myself on the couch, and we alternated
between the Turner Classic Movies channel
and “Rick Steves’ Europe.” After watching
copious amounts of the former, I learned that
old movies could really be hit or miss. As a kid,
I thought that any movie made before 1960
had to automatically be good, but after a while,
the plot-lines get flimsy, the acting gets over-
the-top and the Mid-Atlantic accents become
grating. Hey, we can’t all be “Citizen Kane,”
right?
But watching “Rick Steves’ Europe” was
different. It was a breath of fresh air, an
opportunity for me to live vicariously through
host Rick Steves as he ambled across the Swiss
Alps or the Cinque Terre. I may have been
sitting in the Long Island suburbs, trapped
in the grips of mid-summer lethargy, but
watching “Rick Steves’ Europe” felt like an
almost educational experience. I now held a
surplus knowledge of European travel, and
most importantly, my grandmother seemed to
be somewhat satiated.
We breezed through at least five episodes
a day, touring the Tuscan countryside and
Norwegian fjords. I was amazed at the ease
with which Rick struck up a conversation
anywhere he went, discussing street food
recipes and the country’s political climate
with locals like they were old friends. Rick,
mild-mannered and sincere, never missed
an opportunity to provide a thoughtful social
and historical commentary as he restaurant-
hopped or took in spectacular views. The
show doesn’t veer toward gimmicks or
generalizations, and you get the sense that Rick
really loves what he does.
On days when the toll of my grandmother’s
illness was particularly dispiriting, “Rick
Steves’ Europe” felt like something to escape
into, even if it was just for an hour or two.
Some of these days proved more difficult than
others. I watched as it became harder for her
to walk, eat and speak like she used to. Despite
seeing her almost every day, I hadn’t really had
a conversation with my grandmother for over
two years. This didn’t stop me from asking her
which medieval castle from the past episode
she liked best or whether she’d been to that
city with my grandfather before. Because even
though things were different, even though
I knew she didn’t understand every word I
said, I still saw that flicker of love and humor
and spunk behind her eyes. My grandparents
had loved to travel, and watching “Rick
Steves’ Europe” felt like a way to remind my
grandmother of that happiness.
Dusty photo albums are hidden away in
cabinets and boxes chronicle my grandparents’
travels through Europe. I have memories of
them bringing back Eiffel Tower keychains
from Paris and small enamel jewelry boxes
from Lisbon to give my siblings and me when
we were kids. I always knew that they loved
Europe, from the Carmen opera records we
danced to in their basement to the French
cuisine my grandfather cooked. As the children
of immigrants who grew up in Depression-era
Queens, their ability to travel later in life always
felt meaningful.
She passed away two months ago, and I
never really got to say a proper goodbye. I
wasn’t living at home when it happened, so
I mourned away from the rest of my family
and away from the place that I had shared so
many hours with her. It was a strange feeling,
not having any clear last words or images
to remember her by, but then again, our
relationship had never really been about the
words.
On a random night a few weeks after it
happened, I was struck with the sudden
impulse to turn on an episode of “Rick Steves’
Europe.” Despite watching over 10 seasons
of the show, I realized that I’d never actually
watched it alone; it was always an activity
shared between my mom, grandmother and
me on hazy summer afternoons. I scrolled
through Prime Video and settled on an
episode from Season 2 called “The Best of
West Ireland.” I had seen it millions of times
and would probably have heavily protested
watching it only a month prior, but it felt right
in that moment.
My grandmother’s mother had grown
up in the same emerald hills Rick traversed
on screen, and I realized that watching him
again helped me mourn. He had become so
synonymous with that time spent with my
grandmother that I found immense comfort
in just the cheery swell of the show’s theme
song. We had probably watched “Rick Steves’
Europe” on our last day together, and although
it seemed unnatural to do so alone now, it was
strangely cathartic for my grieving process.
“Rick Steves’ Europe” is a safe haven for me.
My grandmother and I spent most of our time
in the confines of my living room, but watching
the show never once felt like a chore. I’m
forever thankful for the quirky, khaki-donning
travel guide who helped create a connection of
love between my grandmother and me, even
when we didn’t have the words to do so.
How do you describe something that you
feel within yourself but are scared to look at?
This feeling that you can poke and prod while
understanding that examination would lead to
rumination would lead to turning your whole
life upside down? Fleeting thoughts percolate on
the banks of memory and pull little by little; the
silt builds and builds until it can’t be ignored. I’m
sure I’m not the only one who has felt this way,
as the past year of quarantine provided everyone
with ample opportunities to self-reflect and face
issues that had long been on the back burner.
The pandemic also allowed me to watch a lot
of television — specifically, a lot of cartoons. Since
January 2020, I have watched 14 animated TV
shows and about 30 movies (including the entire
Studio Ghibli catalog). Something about the
medium of animation captured my attention
and provided stability for me throughout an
unstable, unprecedented year. When I commit,
I commit hard: My most recent binge-watch
was all 274 episodes of the acclaimed Cartoon
Network epic “Adventure Time.”
Now you may be thinking, what’s the math?
Why is this adult writer talking to me about
something I watched in fifth grade and promptly
forgot about? I promise you it makes sense. Just
tuck yourself in, snuggle under a freshly knitted
blanket and allow me to regale you with a story
about how cartoons helped me come to terms
with myself. It’ll be mathematical and cuckoo
banana pants, I promise.
It all comes back to that feeling, that
discomfort of something not sitting right with
your brain before you hide it away and hope it
fades. That started for me around my freshman
year of college. I started thinking of questions
that challenged my heterosexuality, so naturally,
I said “Nope!” and forgot about them for a
while. Just like anything else, these questions
resurfaced a year later with a vengeance and
demanded my attention. Being a busy college
student, I took my time answering them and
never got around to a satisfactory response. How
could I question my sexuality after living one
way for 20 years? It was like waking up one day
and questioning if gravity existed: absurd, stupid
and obviously a silly waste of time.
As a distraction, I decided to do a rewatch
of “Avatar: The Last Airbender,” which truly is
as great as people say. When I ran out of those
episodes around mid-February, I hopped into
the more controversial sequel series, “The
Legend of Korra,” and found myself enamored.
These shows were my comfort food: well-
written stories matched with gorgeous
animation to create a feast for the eyes and
brain. Both shows are worth the watch, yet
what caught me off guard with “Korra” was
the series finale’s implication that the female
lead, the eponymous Korra, ended up not
with her male love interest Mako, but her gal
pal Asami. Something as small as two women
holding hands on network TV (sadly, the best
they could do in 2014) filled me with immense
joy. And I didn’t know what to do about it.
So, I ignored it. I finished up my semester
smiling on the outside and spiraling on the
inside, unable to talk about my personal crisis
because the world was on fire. So much was
going on in those early months of 2020 that I
felt guilty taking the time to think about myself.
Then I watched “She-Ra and the Princesses of
Power,” and my walls began to crumble. Silt
was tumbling all around me, and with nowhere
else to turn, I had to focus on it.
“She-Ra,” a Netflix reimagining of the
popular Filmation series of the 1980s by
showrunner Noelle Stevenson, is gay. There’s
simply no other way to say it. The content of
the show is fantastic — it’s a riveting adventure
full of twists and turns and iconic characters —
but that doesn’t stop it from being queer to the
core. Adora is caught in a will they-won’t they
relationship with her fre-nemisis Catra, Bow
has two lovely gay librarian dads and Netossa
and Spinerella are the lesbian “moms” of
everyone’s dreams. That’s not even mentioning
the pan/bisexuality of just about every single
character or the groundbreaking non-binary
representation of the shape-shifting, actor-for-
hire Double Trouble.
Watching just after the fifth and final
season aired, I followed the Best Friend
Squad of Adora, Bow and Glimmer all around
Etheria as they tried to stop the Horde. There’s
something so refreshing about a show being so
chock-full of queer characters but not making
a big deal out of it: In Etheria, love is simply
love. Full stop. I found that I related to nearly
all of these characters (I’m a HUGE Catradora
supporter), but I was particularly drawn to
Double Trouble. There was something so
enticing about being outside our standard
gender binary, about choosing where you
identify more one day over the next.
Starting “Steven Universe” right after
finishing “She-Ra” (and forcing just about
everyone I knew to watch it) affirmed one
thing: Queer stories made me feel at home.
There was something so comfortable about
the openness and unabashed love they had
for queer characters. They weren’t a token, an
exaggeration or a two-second kiss that could
be cut for the international release — these
sapphic, bi, non-binary, gay and aromantic/
asexual characters were whole people.
It was now June, three months into my
journey of self-discovery, and though I was
more comfortable with the idea of my changing
identity, I had no solid ground to stand on
yet. There were no labels I felt comfortable
identifying with since the ideas were so
nebulous and dynamic. During Pride month, I
didn’t feel like I could join in because I had no
idea where to slot myself into the community.
It was lonely. Thankfully, cartoons came to my
rescue once again.
Episode 37 of the first season of “Steven
Universe” is called “Alone Together.” In
it, Steven fuses with his friend Connie to
form a singular person stuck smack dab in
the middle of being masculine or feminine.
When they show off their fused form (named
Stevonnie) to the Crystal Gems, Pearl sees it as
unnatural, Amethyst compliments them and
Garnett walks up to them and says, “You’re
not two people and you’re not one person. You
are an experience. Make sure you’re a good
experience.” To Garnett, it doesn’t matter who
Stevonnie is, it matters that they enjoy being.
I paused the episode and took that in. I didn’t
need to know how to make a sandcastle out of
the silt yet; I could simply enjoy being around it.
Labels are well and good, but it’s also more than
okay to exist liminally, to be between labels as
you take time discovering which one fits you
best. I was content not knowing.
Cartoons allow for the abstraction of
complicated concepts like death, love and
gender. They have to so that they can get past
the harsh censorship of Cartoon Network,
Disney and Nickelodeon executives. But this
abstraction also more accurately portrays the
queer experience. For most people, myself
included, the process of coming to terms with
one’s queerness is not a straight line. The
journey is bumpy and twisty and confusing, but
abstractions can act as a homing beacon to help
us find our way back. Even if everyone’s journey
is different, we still understand the important
aspects that connect us, and there’s no better
medium to express that than cartoons.
It wasn’t until August when I was watching
the underrated and thankfully queer “Harley
Quinn” that I came out to someone. Even
then, I didn’t have all the answers about what
I wanted to be called or who I wanted to love,
but I was okay not knowing at that moment. I
was thankful to have someone who, even if he
didn’t understand me, heard me. And that was
enough.
If I’m being honest, I don’t even have all the
answers now, just about a year after my self-
examination started. That’s okay. The journey
doesn’t really end, so it’s a good thing I’ve got
plenty of diverse cartoons to watch in the
meantime.
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
4 — Wednesday, April 14, 2021
Design by Grace Aretakis
I was only 12 years old when my older sister
and I first danced in my kitchen to “What
Makes You Beautiful” by One Direction. We
baked cupcakes and dyed icing pink and
replayed the song until we knew every word.
We discussed choosing favorites: Mine was
Liam and hers was Niall. I can’t pinpoint
exactly when my total obsession with the
boy band happened. All I know is that after
that day, the trajectory of my teenage years
was drastically altered by five pop stars with
luscious hair and British accents.
Over the course of four years, I traveled
throughout the East Coast with my sister to
see One Direction 15 times in six states and
I noticed something: I was seeing the same
people at every concert I went to. Together
we formed a smaller, in-person community
outside of the wider One Direction fandom that
only existed on social media. I referred to real
people by their Twitter handles. I met online
friends in person; we teamed up while camping
out for NBC’s “Today” show and ABC’s “Good
Morning America” in New York City for days at
a time. We loved every second of it.
Being a member of the One Direction
fandom became my personality. My sister
and I would stay up late and talk about their
albums, their personal lives or the next time
we were going to see them. One Direction
was the spark in my friendship with my sister,
and I’m not sure if we would be this close
today without them being our primary topic
of conversation for over four years. I grew
up with One Direction as my biggest
influence, whether it be their music or
the people they brought into my life or
their upcoming performances.
Having an online community
waiting for me at home was a blessing
during middle and high school. I felt
closer to the online fandom than I
did to some of my “real” friends. I
was exposed to diverse people from
around the world, and it was not
uncommon for our relationships
to start off revolving around One
Direction before gradually transforming into
something more personal. We would talk
to one another about where we were from
and what we were going through. These
conversations played a significant role in
developing my understanding of different
cultures and lifestyles while simultaneously
showing me that shared interests can help
bridge the gap between those different groups.
Because I lived on Long Island, Manhattan
was only a train ride away — meaning that any
time One Direction was staying in the city for
a concert or event, my sister and I were on the
next train. Whether or not we had tickets, we
would try and catch a glimpse of our idols.
The rush I felt when I checked Twitter for
updated information on their travel plans was
unlike any other. It may sound creepy and a
little strange, but the thought of catching a
glimpse of my icons was thrilling. If I’m going
to be completely honest, I’ve waited for days
at a time behind a barricade outside several of
Manhattan’s most expensive hotels, and I’m
not ashamed. I know what you’re thinking:
That’s weird. And it is.
But it’s also how I learned to be
independent, social and self-sufficient. When
you’re waiting outside of a hotel for hours on
end with strangers, there’s not much else to do
but talk. And when you have to get from one
side of the city to the other, you have
to learn how to navigate the subway.
I attribute 100% of my subway skills
to being a fan of One Direction. Who
knew that being a Directioner would
equip me with street smarts? When I
wasn’t busy navigating Manhattan, I
took it upon myself to watch as many
interviews and read as many fanfics as
possible. Fans would write full-length
novels and publish them on Wattpad
for other fans to read. It was somewhat
embarrassing to be caught reading
a fanfic, but I couldn’t consider myself a true
fan if I wasn’t consuming every piece of One
Direction-related media I could find.
Today, I listen to One Direction’s music
and I’m torn between feelings of joy, nostalgia
and heartbreak. Yes, I’m still grieving over
their breakup. But the warm memories outdo
the sadness, and I’m reminded that all good
things come to an end: a lesson that everyone
must learn.
The five pop stars that were more or less
forced into a certain genre of music broke out
of their boyband bubble to explore their own
music styles, and I don’t blame them. That’s a
part of growing up too. For them, the process
entailed exploration. For me, it required
understanding.
From attending concerts to navigating the
subways to meeting new people from around
the world, One Direction has profoundly
impacted who I am today. I enjoy talking
to people from different backgrounds. I’m
comfortable figuring out how to get around a
new place. Most importantly, I’m extremely
confident that I will always remember the day
I met Harry Styles as the best day of my life.
It’s quite upsetting that I hit my peak at
age 13, but that’s fine by me. I wouldn’t take
back any of my boyband-related shenanigans
because I know that, when I reminisce on
my teenage years, One Direction will be
responsible for a solid chunk of my most
meaningful memories.
Queer cartoons made me gay
One Direction and growing up within an online community
How ‘Rick Steves’ Europe’ helped me grieve
M. DEITZ
Digital Culture Beat Editor
LAURA MILLAR
Daily Arts Writer
NORA LEWIS
Daily Arts Writer
Design by Sarah Chung
The things we see and watch
when we’re young tend to make
deep impressions on us. “The
Growth B-Side” is here to honor
the ways that art — from the
shows we watched to the books we
read to songs we listened to — has
changed us as we’ve grown. We’re
here to talk about the things that
brought comfort during a difficult
time, represented personal
experiences or influenced life in
unexpected ways.
And even as we pinpoint the
things that influenced us the
most, we continue to grow and
learn more about ourselves in the
process.
Kari Anderson, Senior Arts Editor
Design by Sarah Chung