By Madelyn Reese, Staff Writer, Emerson College
The first thing I noticed was the musty air. I could barely see anything because the lights, which were fixed to flicker like torches, poorly lit the whole cavern. I held my mom’s hand as our family was wound around the path like cattle, with crying children both ahead and behind us. The parents clung to plastic soda containers that promised free refills and found themselves stuck with “commemorative” pins that they didn’t trust their children with wearing.
After what seemed like miles of shuffling and complaining, I was met with what would, for the rest of my family’s Disneyland trip, be the bane of my existence: the Indiana Jones ride. It was a full ten minutes long, unheard of for most modern rides. It was supposed to be an “adventure,” filled with skeletons and evil spirits and molten lava. I approached this with confidence. I could ride California Screamin’, after all, without actually screaming once. But as we took off towards the pair of glowing eyes in the dark tunnel ahead, my head found its way into my mom’s lap, where it stayed for the rest of the ride.
When the hydraulic jeeps dumped us at the exit, I tried to clear my lungs of the musty air and adjust to the searing Southern California sun. Relieved, I started walking out towards the main thoroughfare before my dad cried enthusiastically, “Let’s do it again!”
“Dad!” I whined, “Can we just back to Thunder Mountain?”
My dad was used to my willingness to accompany him on any ride, and so my reluctance confused him.
“What’s the matter, Maddie?” he asked.
“I just don’t want to ride it, okay? Jeez.” My eyebrows furrowed and I set off, walking in the opposite direction of the ride, hoping that at least my mom would follow me. There was no way anyone was getting me back on that ride. It was dark, it smelled funny, and I felt like I was going to suffocate the entire time. It was embarrassing having to hide my head in my mom’s lap. I was seven years old, after all.
“What’s the matter? Is wittle Maddie scared?” my dad teased, poking my sides sharply.
“No! I’m not scared! It just sucks, okay?” I said. I loved having fun, but the Indiana Jones ride was not fun.
“Maddie, what did we say about that word?” my mom scolded.
“Yeah, whatever. I just don’t like it. I want to do something else,” I pouted.
“Alright, whatever. Everyone in this family is allergic to fun. Isn’t that right, KB?” my dad asked my younger sister Katheryn as he ruffled her hair.
Katheryn, four, looked up and nodded, smiling innocently. She obviously hadn’t been paying attention.
“See? She agrees with me.” My dad sighed. “Who’s hungry?”
***
When we returned home, my dad would not let the subject of my terror drop. Maddie - the fearless lover of all upside-down roller coasters – afraid of the Indiana Jones ride? Impossible.
To remedy the situation, he thought it would be a good idea to rent Raiders of the Lost Ark, “to start from the beginning.” Despite the 1970s-era special effects, when that ripped, tanned hunk of a man, “Indy,” sauntered on screen, something inside of my seven year old brain clicked.
I believed that Indiana Jones was one of those guys everyone talked about. Women were supposed to pay attention to things like cheekbones and back muscles and shoulders. I heard the women on the celebrity gossip shows that came on after the news talk about famous men that way. Sometimes, my mom would confide in me about how “dreamy” Colin Firth was. And when I was quiet, my babysitter would tell me about how “sexy” the butt was of her crush.
So when I watched Indiana crack his whip, shoot the bad guys, and rescue damsels in distress, I kept an eye out for these things. In The Temple of Doom, I gazed in awe as he risked his life to save an Indian village from a terrible curse. In this movie, I noticed that he was funny as well as brave, teasing the man who had just described how he was going to torture him by saying he had a “vivid imagination." Then, I cheered alongside Indiana during The Last Crusade as he fought the Nazis. My mom said at one point that he “looked good in uniform," and so I took note of this. Later, as he saved his father from a gunshot wound, I couldn’t shake from my mind how loving he had been in that scene.
After obsessing with me for some time, my mother grew weary of Indiana Jones. At some point she divulged the juicy information: the actor who played him, Harrison Ford, had made more movies. Many more. I pressed her for more information. Were they good movies? Had she seen them before? Were they at the movie rental store?
My answer came when, one Friday after work, my dad arrived with a beaten up rental copy of Star Wars: Episode IV. It sat on the counter as I fidgeted through dinner, shoveling pasta in my mouth, trying to clean my plate so that I could be excused. As soon as I was, I grabbed the DVD case. As Katheryn finished dinner and my parents finished their wine, I began to set it up. I sat on the couch and wrapped myself in a blanket, arranging the remotes on the cushion next to me, and yelled, “Mom! Dad! Hurry up, it’s starting!”
***
When I was nine, we visited Disneyland a second time. We made the 8-hour drive to Anaheim again, with the portable DVD player strapped to the head rests of the seats in front. My Indiana Jones collection that my parents had bought me for Christmas was carefully stashed in a CD case, and it quickly made its way into the road-trip-movie queue. In the backseat pocket, I had also stored Six Days, Seven Nights. My mom asked me to watch it when Katheryn was asleep because it was rated PG-13. I did as I was told – it was better that way, actually, because then Katheryn couldn’t ask me any questions about what was going on in the movie, like she always did. Instead, this time, I had some alone time with Harrison, albeit a version of Harrison that was a bit older and a bit grayer. But it was still him flying planes, struggling for survival, fighting pirates – all the while sweeping the female lead off her feet.
Upon arrival at Disneyland, we fell into the same routine as last time in terms of rides: my mom liked whatever didn’t make her feel nauseated. My dad liked anything that did. As a result, my mom stayed with Katheryn at all times, and my dad stayed with me.
However, this time, the balance was upset. I felt a pull. Something was making me gravitate to the West side of the park, past the Blue Bayou and Tarzan’s Treehouse. I made sure my entire family was in tow before I set off.
It was Indy!
I was disappointed in myself, having forgotten my last experience with the Indiana Jones ride. I was so silly the other time I had been here. Had I not even known who Harrison was? I tried to erase this thought from my mind.
“Mom? Dad? Can we go on the Indiana Jones ride?"
“Are you sure?” My dad asked, with mock surprise in his voice. “Aren’t you going to be scared?"
“No!” I said emphatically, “What do you think I am, seven?”
“Alright, then. Mom? What do you think?” My dad queried, suppressing a grin.
She grimaced, grabbed Katheryn’s hand, and said, “If we must.”
My dad and I strode ahead quickly and excitedly – for him, he was thrilled to have someone willingly accompany him on this ride. For me, it was a challenge. If I could make it through the ride without covering my eyes once, I told myself, I would be able to prove something. I didn’t know what, exactly. I couldn't shake a feeling of determination that had just built up inside of me.
As we waited in line, my mind tried to recall everything I had been scared of the first time I experienced the ride. But all that came to mind was worry. What if Harrison Ford saw me now? I surely wouldn’t be courageous or brave to him if I couldn’t make it through an amusement park ride dedicated to one of his most famous characters. I shuddered at the thought.
Really, my most scandalous desires at the time were innocent dreams of accompanying him on some wild adventure, like Shorty in The Temple of Doom. I wanted to be Harrison’s go-to girl, the one that always got him out of trouble and drove the getaway car. I thought of this as I climbed in the hydraulic jeep one more, embarking on the journey that had terrified me two years prior. As my family filed in behind me, I already had my seatbelt buckled, and my souvenir hat tucked underneath my seat.
This time, I was ready.
Madelyn Reese is a Freshman at Emerson College, majoring in Writing, Literature and Publishing. Her loves include her family, golden retriever, two cats, writing about and listening to music, coffee, tea, and writing lists.
The first thing I noticed was the musty air. I could barely see anything because the lights, which were fixed to flicker like torches, poorly lit the whole cavern. I held my mom’s hand as our family was wound around the path like cattle, with crying children both ahead and behind us. The parents clung to plastic soda containers that promised free refills and found themselves stuck with “commemorative” pins that they didn’t trust their children with wearing.
After what seemed like miles of shuffling and complaining, I was met with what would, for the rest of my family’s Disneyland trip, be the bane of my existence: the Indiana Jones ride. It was a full ten minutes long, unheard of for most modern rides. It was supposed to be an “adventure,” filled with skeletons and evil spirits and molten lava. I approached this with confidence. I could ride California Screamin’, after all, without actually screaming once. But as we took off towards the pair of glowing eyes in the dark tunnel ahead, my head found its way into my mom’s lap, where it stayed for the rest of the ride.
When the hydraulic jeeps dumped us at the exit, I tried to clear my lungs of the musty air and adjust to the searing Southern California sun. Relieved, I started walking out towards the main thoroughfare before my dad cried enthusiastically, “Let’s do it again!”
“Dad!” I whined, “Can we just back to Thunder Mountain?”
My dad was used to my willingness to accompany him on any ride, and so my reluctance confused him.
“What’s the matter, Maddie?” he asked.
“I just don’t want to ride it, okay? Jeez.” My eyebrows furrowed and I set off, walking in the opposite direction of the ride, hoping that at least my mom would follow me. There was no way anyone was getting me back on that ride. It was dark, it smelled funny, and I felt like I was going to suffocate the entire time. It was embarrassing having to hide my head in my mom’s lap. I was seven years old, after all.
“What’s the matter? Is wittle Maddie scared?” my dad teased, poking my sides sharply.
“No! I’m not scared! It just sucks, okay?” I said. I loved having fun, but the Indiana Jones ride was not fun.
“Maddie, what did we say about that word?” my mom scolded.
“Yeah, whatever. I just don’t like it. I want to do something else,” I pouted.
“Alright, whatever. Everyone in this family is allergic to fun. Isn’t that right, KB?” my dad asked my younger sister Katheryn as he ruffled her hair.
Katheryn, four, looked up and nodded, smiling innocently. She obviously hadn’t been paying attention.
“See? She agrees with me.” My dad sighed. “Who’s hungry?”
***
When we returned home, my dad would not let the subject of my terror drop. Maddie - the fearless lover of all upside-down roller coasters – afraid of the Indiana Jones ride? Impossible.
To remedy the situation, he thought it would be a good idea to rent Raiders of the Lost Ark, “to start from the beginning.” Despite the 1970s-era special effects, when that ripped, tanned hunk of a man, “Indy,” sauntered on screen, something inside of my seven year old brain clicked.
I believed that Indiana Jones was one of those guys everyone talked about. Women were supposed to pay attention to things like cheekbones and back muscles and shoulders. I heard the women on the celebrity gossip shows that came on after the news talk about famous men that way. Sometimes, my mom would confide in me about how “dreamy” Colin Firth was. And when I was quiet, my babysitter would tell me about how “sexy” the butt was of her crush.
So when I watched Indiana crack his whip, shoot the bad guys, and rescue damsels in distress, I kept an eye out for these things. In The Temple of Doom, I gazed in awe as he risked his life to save an Indian village from a terrible curse. In this movie, I noticed that he was funny as well as brave, teasing the man who had just described how he was going to torture him by saying he had a “vivid imagination." Then, I cheered alongside Indiana during The Last Crusade as he fought the Nazis. My mom said at one point that he “looked good in uniform," and so I took note of this. Later, as he saved his father from a gunshot wound, I couldn’t shake from my mind how loving he had been in that scene.
After obsessing with me for some time, my mother grew weary of Indiana Jones. At some point she divulged the juicy information: the actor who played him, Harrison Ford, had made more movies. Many more. I pressed her for more information. Were they good movies? Had she seen them before? Were they at the movie rental store?
My answer came when, one Friday after work, my dad arrived with a beaten up rental copy of Star Wars: Episode IV. It sat on the counter as I fidgeted through dinner, shoveling pasta in my mouth, trying to clean my plate so that I could be excused. As soon as I was, I grabbed the DVD case. As Katheryn finished dinner and my parents finished their wine, I began to set it up. I sat on the couch and wrapped myself in a blanket, arranging the remotes on the cushion next to me, and yelled, “Mom! Dad! Hurry up, it’s starting!”
***
When I was nine, we visited Disneyland a second time. We made the 8-hour drive to Anaheim again, with the portable DVD player strapped to the head rests of the seats in front. My Indiana Jones collection that my parents had bought me for Christmas was carefully stashed in a CD case, and it quickly made its way into the road-trip-movie queue. In the backseat pocket, I had also stored Six Days, Seven Nights. My mom asked me to watch it when Katheryn was asleep because it was rated PG-13. I did as I was told – it was better that way, actually, because then Katheryn couldn’t ask me any questions about what was going on in the movie, like she always did. Instead, this time, I had some alone time with Harrison, albeit a version of Harrison that was a bit older and a bit grayer. But it was still him flying planes, struggling for survival, fighting pirates – all the while sweeping the female lead off her feet.
Upon arrival at Disneyland, we fell into the same routine as last time in terms of rides: my mom liked whatever didn’t make her feel nauseated. My dad liked anything that did. As a result, my mom stayed with Katheryn at all times, and my dad stayed with me.
However, this time, the balance was upset. I felt a pull. Something was making me gravitate to the West side of the park, past the Blue Bayou and Tarzan’s Treehouse. I made sure my entire family was in tow before I set off.
It was Indy!
I was disappointed in myself, having forgotten my last experience with the Indiana Jones ride. I was so silly the other time I had been here. Had I not even known who Harrison was? I tried to erase this thought from my mind.
“Mom? Dad? Can we go on the Indiana Jones ride?"
“Are you sure?” My dad asked, with mock surprise in his voice. “Aren’t you going to be scared?"
“No!” I said emphatically, “What do you think I am, seven?”
“Alright, then. Mom? What do you think?” My dad queried, suppressing a grin.
She grimaced, grabbed Katheryn’s hand, and said, “If we must.”
My dad and I strode ahead quickly and excitedly – for him, he was thrilled to have someone willingly accompany him on this ride. For me, it was a challenge. If I could make it through the ride without covering my eyes once, I told myself, I would be able to prove something. I didn’t know what, exactly. I couldn't shake a feeling of determination that had just built up inside of me.
As we waited in line, my mind tried to recall everything I had been scared of the first time I experienced the ride. But all that came to mind was worry. What if Harrison Ford saw me now? I surely wouldn’t be courageous or brave to him if I couldn’t make it through an amusement park ride dedicated to one of his most famous characters. I shuddered at the thought.
Really, my most scandalous desires at the time were innocent dreams of accompanying him on some wild adventure, like Shorty in The Temple of Doom. I wanted to be Harrison’s go-to girl, the one that always got him out of trouble and drove the getaway car. I thought of this as I climbed in the hydraulic jeep one more, embarking on the journey that had terrified me two years prior. As my family filed in behind me, I already had my seatbelt buckled, and my souvenir hat tucked underneath my seat.
This time, I was ready.
Madelyn Reese is a Freshman at Emerson College, majoring in Writing, Literature and Publishing. Her loves include her family, golden retriever, two cats, writing about and listening to music, coffee, tea, and writing lists.