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i sit there in front of all of these different pictures of myself from a million years ago and attempt to make looking at images from other eras somehow interesting to me. I don’t remember when these photos were taken or who the photographers were. One picture in particular makes me feel happy and sad—it’s a very popular one, and in it I look high as a kite. I occasionally like to ask people, “How do I look in that shot?” The kinder people respond “sleepy” or “tired” or “almost available.”
I was signing my nude-ass picture a decade or so ago and I realized that I’d been—and I can’t believe I’m using this word about myself—a sex symbol. Only now the reaction I sometimes get is disappointment, occasionally bordering on resentment, for my having desecrated my body by letting my age increase so. It’s like I’ve TPed myself, thrown eggs at myself, defaced myself as if I were a rowdy trick-or-treater, and some of them are appalled. I wish I’d understood the kind of contract I signed by wearing something like that, insinuating I would and will always remain somewhere in the erotic ballpark appearance-wise, enabling fans to remain connected to their younger, yearning selves—longing to be with me without having to realize that we’re both long past all of this in any urgent sense, and accepting it as a memory rather than an ongoing reality.
It is truly an honor to have been the first crush of so many boys. It’s just difficult to get my head around having spent so much time in so many heads—and that time was of a certain quality. It occurred to me one day, as I finished affixing my flowery signature to yet another photograph of my long-ago young self wearing that slave bikini, that it could appear as though someone had convinced me that if I signed enough of these provocative images, I would at some point magically return to being young and slim.
“You were my first crush.” I heard it so much I started asking who their second one was. We know what a first crush is to a teenager, but what does it mean to a five-year-old?
“But I thought you were mine! That I had found you—I was the only one who knew how beautiful you were—because you weren’t beautiful in that usual way women in film are, right?”
He realizes that I might take what he’s saying wrong. He doesn’t mean it that way. I reassure him, touch his arm; why not give him an anecdote? “I know what you mean, it’s fine. Go on.”
He checks my face to see if I mean it. I do. He continues, “So my friend, when I tell him about my crush, he goes, ‘Oh yeah, she’s awesome! I have a total crush on her, too. Everyone does.’ I got upset. I coulda punched him.”
“Why?”
“Because you were mine and I wanted to be the one who loved you. Me, maybe even help you . . .” He got embarrassed. “Anyway—I wanted to tell you.” He shrugs, then adds, “Thanks for my childhood,” and walks off. Wow, what a thing to be given credit for, to be thanked for! Because he didn’t mean his whole childhood—he meant the good bits. The parts he escaped to. I’m grateful for those good bits he shared with me. And this honor is one that should be and is shared massively and gratefully with George Lucas. And Pat McDermott.
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we showed it to our daughter when she was five and we’ve been trying to figure out when to show it to our son, who’s four and a half. What do you think?”
It’s like they’re introducing the child to a tribe; there’s a ritual—you hold your child above your head, bring him toward some Wizard of Oz–like setup, place him down as an offering, and say, “Watch this.” Then you watch him watching Star Wars, trying to find out how much you have in common with your kid, see which character he’ll identify with, who he’ll root for, and hope that at the end of it you can still love your child in the same way. (I showed it to Billie when she was five, and her first reaction was that it was too loud. Also her second and third.)
If you can find a common language that runs from five to eighty-five, you’ve got yourself something, and Star Wars fans have something. In a way, it’s as if they know they have this great gift to bestow, and they want to bestow it as perfectly as possible—the perfect time, the perfect place, the perfect situation for passing on this life-defining experience. And the kids will always remember for their entire lives how they first felt when they first saw their now favorite movie. And they were given this gift from their parents, and can now share it together. Truly a family affair.
“My mother showed it to me when I was six,” one mother says, “and it kick-started my life.”
The women forgive me for being in the metal bikini because they know I’m not in it voluntarily, and they let the men like it—even have their fairly innocuous little erections—because they know that I represent something else and not just that sex thing. Capable, reliable, equal to if not better than a man. I’m sure I didn’t pay enough attention to what things were like BL (Before Leia), but the movie came out at the same time as a popular slogan of the day, “A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle,” and many females of all ages seem to have been glad I’d arrived on the scene, a heroine for our time.
I was something women and men could agree on. They didn’t like me in the same way, but they liked me with the same intensity, and were all fine with the other sex liking me, too. Isn’t that weird? Think about it. And then stop and ponder something actually important.
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sorry, but could you use a silver pen? Great, thanks. And wait, not there, maybe in that space next to your head? That would be great. And could you write the character’s name just under yours? PLO? What does that mean, Palestine something? Of course! Princess Leia Organa. Very funny. But could you maybe also just write Leia, like in parentheses or something? Thanks.
“This is so great, now I have pretty much everyone—once I get Harrison, I mean. Yeah, right, it sure is a long shot, but no harm in hoping, is there? I didn’t think I’d get Mark in the beginning ’cause at first he wasn’t doing them, and then all of a sudden they said he was going to that celebration in San Diego. At first I didn’t believe—I thought I’d fall over. Not fall fall, but I was light-headed, woozy-like.
“I guess you’ve probably noticed by now that I am really kind of a fanatic. Yet even as I say it, I really don’t feel, like, crazy. Star Wars gives me a feeling of . . . ongoingness, you know? Like it’s been here, and it’s still here, and it’ll stay here. Especially now with the new movie coming out. I mean, when they first said there was going to be a new movie I just—wow. You know? Dreams really can come true. That’s why I believe I’m going to get Harrison’s autograph. Sure, the odds are kind of against it, but who thought there’d really be Episode VII and that you guys were going to be in it? That would’ve seemed crazy to a lot of people. Not me, though, ’cause I believe in it. Not like religion believe, that would be schizo, sort of, but also not not like religion. It’s got good and evil like a religion and miracles and priests and devils.