TV, in our household, was the
forbidden fruit. We were allowed a mere
sixty minutes of precious programming each weekend, that or a movie, and on
Sundays our screen time had to be religiously based, picture Mormon-produced
family films and bible stories, as well as church history films (later our
parents allowed animated features to creep into the Holy Sabbath ritual). We celebrated “TGIF” (Thank Goodness It’s
Friday) regularly, as that night (Friday) was designated as a “TV watching
night!” Our parents would spread the
party blanket; we would pop homemade popcorn and select our pop-sharing buddies
(we each were allowed a half a can), and settle in for Boy Meets World, and
Sabrina the Teenage Witch. When the fun
Friday programming came to an end, and the 10o’clock news started, we would plead to stay up, stay up, to watch, the
news.
After
school, I sometimes spent a few hours at my friend’s houses before returning
home for the evening. We would get a
snack, (I always hoped they had pop tarts or toaster strudel, delicacies my
parents never bought, but I usually ended up asking for “cold cereal” another
privilege I wasn’t afforded until the weekend).
During the process of preparing the edibles, we would discuss options
for activities, and I would beg my
friends (usually each friend, respectively) to watch TV. Their face(s) would scrunch up in a look of
disgust and repulsion, “I watch TV all the time! I want to do something
different while you are here.” To which my rebuttal would be, “Well I never get
to watch TV. Can’t we at least put it on
in the background?” The TV was usually
turned on, and I was drawn to its light.
Friends would ask questions and try to carry on a dialogue, and I would
be oblivious to anything but the sounds and images on the screen, slack-jawed,
eyes glazed over.
On
rare days I would find myself alone at home, I would turn on the TV, volume
turned down low, and watch the skeaziest most shameful show on (Maury or Jerry
Springer, soap operas would do the trick as well) something my parents would
never allow even during my allotted hour.
I would sit tensely, staring at the screen, adrenaline throbbing through
my veins, pure excitement exploding in the cortexes of my brain. I would jump at the smallest sound, remote
control already in my sweaty palm I would rapidly switch the channel, click the
TV off, throw the remote on the couch, and zip off to another region of the
house, a premeditated, decoy activity lying in wait. If the sound turned out to be nothing, I
would slowly make my way back to the TV room, and turn on the set…
