My Horror Family

Being six years old, living eight miles away from the closest sack of flesh and bones I dared to call a friend, my weekends revolved around backyard excursions, learning the various cleaning methods of laundry day, using my imagination to escape the fact that my grandmother demanded her lady garments to be hand-washed with soap and water in an aluminum tub with a washboard.

My Aunt Belinda and Aunt Anna never had any younger brothers, only older ones whom they (along with their other two sisters) despise to this day, so naturally since my innocence was still pure they felt persuaded by the lords of the underworld to pummel my precious spirit every chance afforded to them. They never worked alone; no – they were a finely tuned wolf pack – one provided the distraction, the other swarmed in for the kill, and both fed off my humiliation, like jackals off a dead tigers hide. They smashed fruit pieces in my face, tickled me until I cried, sat on me until I choked; even made me use the bathroom outside in the rare cold mornings and then locked me out of the house. I was their personal chew toy, emotionally and physically. They thought they were preparing me for a childhood filled with intrepid fear and a loathsome lifestyle. Their plan backfired.

We were one of the last families to purchase a VCR as my grandparents saved every penny they ever earned for emergency situations.  It wasn’t until my aunts bought one that my love for all things film would consume a large portion of my life.

Quickly, Saturdays were movie nights and one fortuitous weekend, the two witches of South Bowie Street decided to rent horror films - The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Children of the Corn 2: The Final Sacrifice – all in hopes of watching me squirm like a conscientious bull lined up on the killing floor. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre was first. I never made a sound. Halfway through Children of the Corn 2 my aunt Anna finally asked in a sarcastically dominant tone, “Are you scared?”

“This is awesome,” was my reply.

Those Saturdays went from our movie nights to their date nights and my movie nights. After gaining tiny bits of sweet revenge by playing practical jokes on their dates, usually by pretending I was the son they never mentioned before, I had the VCR and television all to myself, and soon my new family began taking shape; my new family of horror. Jason, Freddy, Michael, possessed homicidal dolls, demons, homicidal maniacs; they were all welcomed into my room, the more the merrier.

The older I got the more interested I became in the actors and creators behind the masks and makeup. Robert Englund became one of my favorite actors (he was excellent in the original V mini-series), and while Ari Lehman was the original Jason Voorhees it was Kane Hodder that defined the beastly, heavy breathed demeanor of the hockey mask killer, although the potato sack mask from part 2 was a nice touch. Then, I started thinking about the directors, the men and women that pulled these wicked and sometimes misunderstood creatures out of their imaginations and life experiences, and transformed them into what was onscreen. Suddenly I had a new family.

This is all based on personal experiences and self-studied views:

Wes Craven feels like the fatherly type. His films are the least physically grotesque but he loves to mess with your mind while he himself is a kind hearted, soft-spoken man who enjoys vintage literature and classical music. He’s not strict but is stern and cautious.

John Carpenter is the cool uncle you like to hang out with because he’s going to let you do things your dad wouldn’t let you do, and neither one of you is going to tell on the other(Halloween). He speaks his mind and doesn’t care whose listening (They Live) even though he sometimes doesn’t know when to stop (Ghosts of Mars). He’s delightfully sarcastic, slightly bitter, and demands to get paid for his work.

George Romero is the other uncle, the quirky one with the big glasses. He tells bad jokes that you can’t help but laugh at (Land of the Dead, Diary of the Dead) because you know deep down he’s good at what he does (Martin, Knightriders), and he can make something fantastic out of toilet paper, chewing gum, and a paper clip.

Dario Argento is that foreign uncle, living in the old country and doing his thing. He had flares of greatness (Suspiria, Deep Red) but time has taken its toll on his skills and he’s lost track of what made him special so long ago (The Card Player, Mother of Tears). Plus, he has that daughter that you hope isn’t your blood relation because she is beyond sexy (Asia Argento) and displays her own unique filmmaking skills in the most flamboyant fashions (Scarlet Diva, The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things).

I enjoy sports, spending time outdoors, and anything to do with the arts. Growing up inside a house dominated by women, other than my grandfather male role models were scarce, so I had to rely on what I knew and growing up I knew horror more than anything else, and seeing as how I spent the majority of my childhood alone I found myself another family to keep me occupied - my astonishing horror family.