Tonight, I curled up on the couch with my two daughters, ages 15 and 9, and watched TITANIC. The younger has been fairly fixated on the disaster of the Titanic since she read several books about it, this past school year, and since Dad was out with his friends for the night, we decided we’d have some girl time. Let me be clear–while I think that TITANIC was a cinematic marvel, there is much in the film that could have been improved. I am not going to post a review of the film.
What I am struck by, tonight, once the obligatory “Jack” tears have been cried and Rose has gone on to die an old lady, warm in her bed, is how film can transport you back in time.
Not, in this instance, to 1912, but rather, to the cold, early-winter of 1997.
I was 21–almost a baby, myself–and I had, six weeks prior to the release of TITANIC, suffered a devastating miscarriage. I was not in a good place, barely leaving my bed, and I went to see TITANIC six times. Because it was a place that I could cry, and no one would ask if I was alright. It was a safe zone–everyone was crying–and that made it all the more cathartic. Everyone in the theater, in my mind, wept for my lost baby.
Now, seventeen years removed from that theater, I realize how terribly depressed I was, and how lucky I was to find a way clear of it. That luck came in the form of my now fifteen year old daughter– who fell asleep before the end, tonight–because she’s seen it many times, and because she worked a long day, today, and because blessedly, she is not in that bad place, where you need an excuse to cry.
I spent a lot of time, in my early twenties, in that place. When the mother in steerage tucks her children into the bed and tells them the story of Tir Na Nog, it hits me, every time. That nostalgic feeling that my little girl used to call “remembories.” It’s a certain song on the radio, or a scene from a film. It’s certain smells, or places. It’s a gentle, beautiful reminder that I am whole, and healed, and I almost never slip back to that lonely, sad, broken place, any more.
I am grateful to TITANIC, for the safe place that it gave me, to loudly and publicly mourn for the baby I would never know. Watching it now, I realize what a gift it was, and while Jack’s death on the screen has long since stopped goading me to tears, I still choke up when I hear of Tir Na Nog, and the land of eternal youth and beauty. I like to imagine that it exists, even if it is just a memory.