An open letter to Wild Thing: I think I love you
Posted October 13, 2009 at 10:36 pm in Columns, Lifestyle
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Loading ...Dear Wild Thing,
In commemoration of the movie release of Where the Wild Things Are this Friday, I am writing you a love letter. I’m not sure if you can read this — is it discriminatory of me to think that a Wild Thing lacks literacy? — but I wanted you to know that despite the years that have passed, and despite the imaginary ocean that separates us, you still remain a ferocious part of my soul.
After reading about your adventures with Max when I was but a young child, all I wanted was a fuzzy onesie and a kingdom of Wild Things to rule. I had two younger sisters, sure but they weren’t quite as fun as the towering beasts that Max indulged in. They drooled and cried all the same, but where was the reckless abandon and crazy eyes? I wanted to sail across the seas and find myself on an uncharted island; I wanted to dance and howl and engage in ridiculous shenanigans with you by my side.
Max wasn’t the only one to be sent to bed without supper because of disobedience — my grumbling tummy was also a source of defiant pride. You were complicated and misunderstood and rebellious, just like me. You needed someone to guide and lead you when I needed someone to love me. I’m sorry that, in the end, I left you just as Max did. But who can resist the sweet aroma of a home cooked, apologetic dinner?
But it’s OK. You know as well as I do that I never really left that island of obscure wilderness, recklessness and freedom. None of us have ever truly left. When midterms approach, we growl. When our football team engages in yet another mindless, overconfident and ridiculously awful play, we dance about our campfires of popcorn buckets and chili cheese fries to a furious, chaotic rhythm. And when finals approach like the rising moon, we lift our heads and howl, instinctually and collectively, into the night sky.
No, we no longer chase our dogs with forks or tell our mothers that we will eat them. We have shed these silly habits. But we must now travel in vessels larger than the tiny sailboat that was once sufficient for our compact body — larger vessels like a four-tire automobile used to escape the horror of our realities along the Grapevine. With every struggle of inner turmoil, you find us there, next to you, howling and dancing and shunning the world.
You taught us so many important life lessons, Wild Thing. You taught us that we can conquer any fearsome-looking monster by simply staring unblinkingly into its eyes. Steady, confident resolve makes anyone a king.
You taught us that we should never be ashamed of homesickness, that speech is at times overrated and that anger is, although potent, ephemeral.
You taught us that the world is troubled, that there is sorrow, fear and violence but that they can be overcome.
You empowered us, Wild Thing — you let us be your kings and, in doing so, you opened our eyes to imaginary worlds of possibilities. Also, you were furry with large teeth. I would have listened to anything you wanted to say to me.
You know what’s funny, Wild Thing? I loved you and praised you but when I told my friends about you, they read your book and spat on its gleaming covers.
There are only nine sentences, they told me. The story is about a brat kid being a brat, they said. The Wild Things are creeps, one even declared! When I was a little girl, nine sentences were enough to convey a complete story. I didn’t need to be told how to feel or what to see — Max channeled my fury, my regret.
Why is it that with the advance of age, anger is suddenly an embarrassing and disgraceful emotion? Why can’t we dance and howl and prance with you in our whimsical jungle, Wild Thing, when anger inevitably comes? I would much rather don a fuzzy onesie than pull a Christian Bale and use my grown-up voice.
It will be strange to see you on the big screen, Wild Thing. You will be large and menacing and wild, but gentle all the same.
When I watch you and Max embark on your adventures, I know that the world will get a bit more tangled, a bit more messy and wet — until I find myself in a sailboat, roughing tumultuous waves as I come to you.
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