I’ve always felt a little left out when it comes to old school videogame nostalgia.
In my line of work, it’s rare to come across a writer or critic who doesn’t consider themselves a “lifelong fan” of videogames. It’s written into all the pitches and resumes I read as an editor every day. It’s a way, in this hobbyist profession, to establish your passion as the basis of expertise. Rarely do you see an admission of “I didn’t get into games until I was an adult,” or “I appreciate the medium but it doesn’t primarily consume my time.” The videogames community is competitive, but especially when it comes to proving loyalty. How else to assert your “right” to be here?
As such, it’s not often I admit how culturally sheltered I was growing up. My parents were fundamentalist Christian separatists, and from about the age of seven, we were isolated from much of the outside world. There were few things that my parents did not see as a threat to our spiritual well being. Anything “secular”—from Disney movies to my dad’s Pink Floyd albums—was thrown away or burned in elaborate purging ceremonies when our family converted, replaced by a library of entertainment my parents perceived as wholesome or harmless.
As many folks do, my parents held the belief (erroneous or not) that the entertainment of the past was “safe,” that decency standards of the preceding decades could be trusted. So our leisure time was limited to old musicals, Christian rock music, and vintage cartoons. My sisters and I had stacks of VHS tapes with hours of Disney, Warner Bros., Tom & Jerry, even Tex Avery cartoons, hours upon hours of mindless footage we could get lost in day after day. The “occultism” of modern Disney movies was forbidden, mind you, but the ancient antics of Mickey and Friends were considered okay. And so, over time, the sense of routine that children associate with stability became, for me, centered around the bright, cheery worlds of my favorite cartoon heroes. It was a double whammy of “safe”: they weren’t just the only things I was “allowed” to watch. They were also the only place to hide. My parents were neglectful, emotionally unavailable and abusive. Some of the only times I ever felt happy were when I was immersed in a fantasy. Whether staying up until 4 AM reading books or keeping Quack Attack on at all hours of the day like some kind of mental health night light, it was the only way to keep the bad things at bay. If I could keep my mind occupied, I had a shot at surviving my reality. If only for a little while.
