I confess. I like zombie movies. Love them, in fact.
Many of my friends don’t know this about me, but there are clues. My sense of humour can run a bit dark, and on my bookshelf they might find “The Zombie Survival Guide” next to the Thomas Mann. I could prove useful to them if we find ourselves in need of protection from the living dead, so I’m a good person to know. I could probably take the head off a zombie with say, a spatula. Not that this has been tested recently.
Lately, my husband and I got sucked into “The Walking Dead,” which can only be described as a horror soap opera.
“Why did you make me start watching this?” He asks, as each episode ends in a cliff-hanger.
Our stomachs knot up in anticipation, we cringe in suspense. Usually we have to watch something stupid after, to cleanse our brains of the scenes we’ve just witnessed. If it involves kids at all, we both freak out completely, now that we have kids of our own. Somehow, we still want to watch it. My only real problem with zombie movies is my own overactive imagination. My mind keeps me up at night, now with completely irrational fears of ways in which my children could meet their demise.
Like all good kids, I blame my parents. Raised in a part-time Catholic household (we showed up for the fun times, like Easter and Christmas, and my favourite, Ash Wednesday), we were explicitly told that movies like that would rot our brains, and were therefore a no-no. Telling your kid something is bad for them will only lead to curiosity about why, which is why I plan on telling my kids that whatever they are into (death metal, bolly-wood, etc.) is awesome and I am going to do it too.
This will be the end of their interest in it.
Off I strode to my friends houses, the ones with HBO or parents who were too busy or drunk to care what we were up to. My first horror movie was a made for TV thriller, viewed at a friend’s farmhouse. Their family had multitudes of foster kids (someone had to work on the farm) and the oldest sibling told us we could stay up with the big kids to watch. We were leery, but hooked by the promise of “things we weren’t really supposed to do,” albeit with approval.
It began, as most horror films do, with a ritual. A young girl had been picked to stand in the middle of a circle, her four friends holding hands around her. They chanted mysterious mumblings and painted sacred symbols on the floor. The girl was asked if she truly was a virgin (lots of giggling then). Then, the skies darkened, a storm came up, lightening struck the barn. A farm! Just like where we were now! Poof, the girl vanished, never to be heard from again. We were enthralled by the vows of secrecy and the eventual twenty year reunion ritual, where she came back from the underworld. All of it was intriguing and fascinating and dark.
There began my fascination with all things creepy, otherworldly and un-dead. This served me well for many years. I would stay up with the guys, bonding over bloodcurdling screams and the refrains of “Brains. Brains!”
It became less hilarious when I had children.
How could I assume that these movies were harmless? Now my brain regurgitates all of those horror scenes I foolishly watched. Pet Cemetery? Beautiful blond child gets smoked by a semi. The Omen? Adopted son is spawn of Satan. The list goes on, helping me envision improbable ways for my kids to bite it. They might fall off staircases only to be impaled on railings below. They might be gunned down while visiting the ice cream man. They could be possessed by things other than the video “Cars.”
I know that these anxieties are just that, and totally irrational. I do the best I can to keep my kids safe. I can try to keep them from watching horror movies as long as possible, so they can sleep at night, without fear of an R.E.M. induced zombie invasion.
But I can also work on my spatula moves, just in case.
I am not alone…
Vancouver Zombie Walk, Aug 18, 2012