Screen Time

So my older sister and I read books (a lot of them). We listened to stories on tape. We played Monopoly, Stratego, Uno, and Mancala. We built forts. We wrestled on our mother’s big bed and played tickle torture so many times that by the age of 12, I’d trained myself to remain still and serene even with my sister tickling my toes.

My mother didn’t have much, but she wanted to give us the world. So in lieu of a TV screen, she opened her home and let us invite friends over after school every single afternoon. With one friend, I amassed an enormous collection of pretty buttons and other random objects. I convinced another friend to secretly bring over her Barbie collection — that was another item forbidden by mother.

We went to a public elementary school in the Boston suburbs and when my kindergarten classmates spoke about Sesame Street, I listened attentively, intrigued. Why was Oscar such a grouch and why did he live in a garbage can? And who was this Big Bird character? Years later, in middle school, I finally had the opportunity to watch an episode of Sesame Street while babysitting for a neighbor’s kid. I remember feeling guilty that I was being paid to do something I’d dreamt about for years. My initial excitement quickly dissipated: This is what my classmates had been so enthralled with?

I was 11 when my mother finally caved in and bought a television set. But it did not receive a place of honor in our living room. It was relegated to the hallway closet, where it remained unless it was brought out for us to watch a family movie together, on those rare occasions.