It started in 1977

The Summer of 1977 stands tall in the memories of my childhood.

And, I hazard to say, that the experience I shared one afternoon with my family changed the course of my life in ways that some might consider silly or overblown.

It made me see things differently; it created in me a yearning for community; it reminded me that it's okay to love something big.

~~~~~~~~

My mother, father, and three-year-old brother sat in an Austin, Texas theatre with a crowd of moviegoers eagerly anticipating something. We’d heard about the something, but still weren’t quite sure what to expect.

I was not quite 8 years old and our family tradition was to go see one movie together each week. We'd see animated and family movies like you might expect (anyone remember those "Benji" movies from the mid-70s?), but our viewings were a little unusual for a family with two young children. Mom would fight for more literary options, while Dad would push towards historical films or current hits (yes, we saw "A Bridge Too Far" and "Rocky" that year).

On this afternoon, however, Mom and Dad decided to venture into the hot Texas afternoon to watch what had become a phenomenon. I imagine that they wanted to find out what the fuss was all about.

When the crawl of that first “Star Wars” rolled up the screen (in my mind, still the biggest screen I’ve ever experienced), I looked over to my little brother’s face. My mother sat between us, and he sat on my Dad’s lap.

His eyes were huge.

He stared at the words, and then the spaceship, and then the explosions, and then the creatures. And his young eyes simply tried to take it all in.

I felt a similar way, although my slightly more mature self may not have shouted it loudly. But, I did sat transfixed.

I was amazed by the effects, by the story, by the phenomenon itself

And ever since, I’ve tried to understand why “Star Wars” (and everything that evolved form it) has appealed to me for so long. (After all, some might say, it’s only a movie.)

And I’ve come to a two-pronged conclusion about that:

I go big.

I love my Dad.

Let me explain.

~~~~~~~

I recently had a discussion with a friend who had never seen any of the Star Wars movies and who has never caught on to any of the recent iterations of the franchise.

I’m not a Star Wars snob, so it doesn’t bother me that others don’t care for it. But the conversation did make me wonder what it was that made me love it so much—and why it didn’t have the same appeal for my friend.

“Maybe it says something about me, and how I obsess over imaginary things,” I told him.

Hmm. Imaginary things?

I love created worlds—whether they’re in a book, or a t.v. show, or songs, or a movie.

I love when a director, or an author, or a sculptor, or a songwriter, creates a world I could never have imagined for myself and then makes it so real that I want to live in that place.

I will become fascinated with those worlds; I will fall in love (or hate) with its inhabitants and stand in awe of the creators who made it for me.

I will immerse myself in those worlds.

In a pretty big way.

Because, if I love something, I want to celebrate it big.

So, in the case of Star Wars ( or Emily Dickinson, or Taylor Swift, or a superhero movie, or Star Trek--because I'm a "come one-come all" sort of science fiction fan), I will watch and rewatch, read and reread, discuss and discuss some more. And I might even wear my hair in a Leia-inspired bun, or wear a shirt emblazoned with words from my girl Emily D.

Because I go big, and happy, and unapologetic.

(That applies to real-life, non-imaginary things as well. Just ask my family about our birthday celebrations. Or how we do vacations. Or how much I love college football.)

And then there’s the second reason.

My Dad.

That first Star Wars viewing in 1977 started a tradition with my father that’s still one of the most important from my childhood.

From that point on, we went to see any new science fiction movie that made it to our double-plex movie theatre. We stood in a line that stretched around the building to see “The Empire Strikes Back,” but we also watched movies with such inauspicious titles as “Spacehunter: Adventures in the Forbidden Zone” and “Outland” (and others involving questionable 3D and even more questionable men in spandex spacesuits).

It was our thing.

We shared other things—a love for music, a common faith—but this was different. It was fun, and it was ours. (My Mom didn’t understand; she and I were extremely close in other ways that involved the kitchen, and books, and the shopping mall. Those things were just as special, just in a different way.)

I had a special bond, a new sense of community with my Dad.

Ultimately, that community may be the real reason why Star Wars resonates with me, and why its newest stories have meant so much to me and its countless other fans.

My Dad and I shared something.

My brother and I shared something (when that three-year-old grew older, he occasionally let me hang in his room with his hordes of action figures).

The other fans and I shared something.

My daughters and grandchildren and I now share something. (They've come to my Star Wars themed birthday parties and the self-proclaimed "Cheryl Con" I threw for myself a few years back. Heck, I have a grandson named Riker, inspired by “Star Trek: The Next Generation.”)

And, apparently, this sense of community is important to me–maybe even more important than I realized.

It must be why I look forward to hours upon hours in a stadium, cheering on my favorite football team.

Or why I enjoy concerts so much, as I sing and sway in unison with other aficionados.

I am unabashedly a fan. And I'm proud of it.

So, on this day when people will see me in my Star Wars-themed shirt and say, "May the Fourth be with You" and I answer "And also with you"...some may look at me funny or wonder why I like that "space stuff" so much.

If I had a chance to explain it to them, I'd blame it all on that afternoon in Austin, Texas, in 1977.