I have the same taste in art as my
four-year-old niece — I swear I’m
not exaggerating.
I love Disney movies, and
their
soundtracks,
probably
more than her. Hannah Montana
(yes, Hannah, not Miley Cyrus)
makes her way into my top five
most listened to artists every
Spotify Wrapped. I will defend
Barbie movies until I die. Young
adult books dominate 90% of my
bookshelf. I frequently rewatch
my favorite Disney Channel or
Nickelodeon shows. My artistic
preferences don’t exactly match
that of a typical 20-year-old.
I struggle to grasp the concept
of growing up. Not to sound like a
millennial, but “adulting” is hard,
and saying goodbye to childhood
is even harder. I’m the youngest in
my family, yet I’m the sentimental
old fool whose conversations often
begin with, “Remember when?”
I’m like an overfilled balloon of
nostalgia just waiting to burst. I’m
not nostalgic for my childhood — a
childhood plagued with divorce
and financial insecurity — but
rather the idea of childhood with its
simplicity and innocence. Holding
onto the past (however I choose
to see it) makes life a little easier.
I attach positive emotions to the
idea of childhood, and in turn, the
movies, music, books and TV shows
I devoured as a child stay as fun and
enjoyable as ever. They never grow
old, unlike me.
It’s hard to outgrow something
you can always easily return to.
With the growing popularity of
streaming services, the movies
and TV shows I consumed as a
child are increasingly accessible
and inescapable. That’s fine by me
— movies and TV shows shaped
my childhood. Saturday mornings
were made for watching cartoons at
my grandma’s house. Movie nights
meant root beer floats. Quoting
lines from movies and TV shows
we watched as children is how my
siblings and I communicate; our
humor is permanently altered by
“Shrek” and other fantastical (read:
stupid) movies.
The fact that the types of movies
and TV shows I like to watch don’t
reflect my age embarrasses me at
times. I sometimes feel shame and
guilt from liking things that are
“just for kids.” But just because some
movies and TV shows are made for
children, doesn’t mean they can’t
resonate with adults. I appreciate
Pixar movies now more than I did
as a child. I refuse to believe the Toy
Story franchise and “Up” are “for
kids only” because they make me
sob more than they should.
My favorite show of all time,
“Avatar:
The
Last
Airbender,”
remains (unsurprisingly) relevant
in today’s society. Aside from “Boy
Meets World,” it’s one of the most
thought-provoking children shows
I’ve ever encountered and has one
of the greatest character arcs of all
time. So even the thought of one of
my favorite movies or TV shows
from childhood being “just for kids”
hurts.
On my older sister’s bookshelf sit
12 bright yellow hardcover editions
of the Nancy Drew classic mysteries.
Arranged in a neatly ordered row,
dust has now likely had the chance
to coat the spines and nestle in the
upper lip between the cover and
the pages, but there was a time
when those books scarcely spent a
second stuck on the shelf. They’d
go directly out of my sister’s hands
and into mine, where they’d remain
indefinitely as I re-read them over
and over, caught in an infinite loop
awaiting a break sequence that
would never arrive. A beloved token
of my sister’s library and an artifact
of my childhood, the pages are well-
worn from countless turns and
creases, and I know each one of the
mysteries they hold within by heart.
Nancy Drew was always my
sister’s “thing,” but like many of her
lightly used possessions and the vast
majority of her closet, her interests
trickled down to me. I vainly
thought of myself as the Ramona
to her Beezus, and LeUyen Pham’s
“Big Sister, Little Sister” was my
gospel (something our well-loved
copy at home covered in crayon
scribbles and a binding hanging on
for dear life can certainly attest to).
As such, much of my early exposure
to art was contingent on the things
that my sister was into; half of the
reason I consider myself to be an
avid reader is the fact that I spent
years trying to “catch up” to where
she was, even though she was three
years my elder. To some extent, I
watched what she watched, read
what she had read a couple years
ago and wanted nothing more than
to understand the art that she loved
so dearly.
Over the years, we readily passed
through various book phases, but
Nancy Drew’s presence was a
constant like no other. My sister’s
Nancy Drew collection grew to
encompass vintage book sale finds
and dozens of paperbacks from the
’80s and ’90s passed down from our
aunt. Aside from the books, we’d
also watch the 2007 film adaptation
starring Emma Roberts (“Scream
Queens”) religiously and tune in
for weekly reruns of “The Hardy
Boys/Nancy Drew Mysteries.” I
still reminisce about those lazy
Sunday evenings, curled up on the
couch as we listened to the opening
notes of the show’s theme song and
waited for the omniscient narrator
to announce which mystery we’d
be viewing that night. We liked
Nancy’s standalone episodes best
and begrudgingly sat through the
Hardy Boys ones, but the crossover
specials that occurred once or twice
a season were simply unmatched.
Suffice to say, Nancy Drew
left a ubiquitous imprint on my
childhood.
Each
adaptation’s
interpretation
of
her
blends
seamlessly into the other; when I
think of her, an amalgamated vision
of the classic ’30s illustrations,
Roberts’s perfectly put-together
plaid ensembles and Pamela Sue
Martin’s (“Dynasty”) smartly chic
and pragmatic ’70s jumpsuits and
blazers all come to mind at once.
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
On Nancy Drew, Scooby-Doo and
the mysteries of childhood
SERENA IRANI
Daily Arts Writer
We all had to start somewhere
as people. And lately, I have been
realizing more and more how
much our selves emerge from
what we immerse ourselves in.
For many of us in this section,
including myself, that was art, in
several different forms, dating
back to our childhood. It taught
us about the world as it was, the
world as it could be, the world as it
would never be, though it was still
fun to consider. It showed us the
space outside ourselves, and how
we fit into it. Art taught us about
those we love and about what we
wanted; it asked us to be honest
and gave us the curiosity to look
for a greater understanding of
ourselves. Childhood art is often
dismissed, rarely getting the
credit it deserves for being the
first art we connect with. It’s the
thing that, through patience from
the creators and natural empathy
from the children absorbing the
work, taught us that our presence
and soul are not only contained
in our bodies but can be shared
with others. In editing all these
writers’ pieces, I saw firsthand
all the different experiences and
stories they had to tell, but also
felt the same thread of connection
to and core understanding of each
one. If you read on, I’m sure you’ll
feel the same. Introducing: the
Childhood B-Side.
The B-Side: Childhood
Wednesday, December 7, 2022 — 5
Design by Iris Ding
Me and my childlike artistic
preferences
AVA SEAMAN
Daily Arts Writer
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
ROSA SOFIA KAMINSKI
Senior Arts Editor