As a child growing up in the 1980s, I never identified as a typical girl. I often found myself at odds with the label “tomboy,” as I felt it implied a closeness to boyhood that didn’t quite resonate with me. I simply enjoyed activities that were more aligned with my personality than societal expectations.
During recess in Eugene, Oregon, around 1981, my friends and I played a high-energy version of dodgeball we called “slaughterball.” We’d dart across the playground, either chasing the ball or evading it, shouting out phrases like “Facial disgracial!” when the competition heated up. Occasionally, I would join the girls on the monkey bars, attempting stunts like penny drops and dead man’s drops. However, I gravitated more towards the boys, finding camaraderie with them that was hard to explain.
Life at home was easier, too. The neighborhood kids were predominantly boys, and we would gather in the space between two houses across the street. One of the boys had a sleek, black Darth Vader-shaped carrying case filled with Star Wars action figures. We would set them up along the stone wall and under the rhododendrons, creating epic narratives. The only other girl in the area often got to play with Princess Leia, while I claimed the quirky characters from Buck Rogers.
Our carefree childhoods, fueled by the freedom granted by our parents, led us to play until darkness fell. We would stumble home, dirty and hungry, just in time for my mom’s dinner involving zucchini and cottage cheese. Back then, our family was whole, but a divorce loomed on the horizon.
“Did you have fun today?” my mom would ask.
“Yeah, we played freeze tag and Star Wars. Can I watch TV?” I would respond, knowing she’d likely say yes, as it was rare for me to be indoors.
Thursday nights were reserved for Magnum, P.I., a show I never missed. As I lay sprawled on the shag carpet by the fireplace, my heart raced as I anticipated the opening sequence. I was captivated by T.C.’s helicopter, and my feet would tap to the rhythmic theme song. I eagerly awaited the moment Tom Selleck turned to the camera, raising his eyebrows in that iconic way. My cheeks would flush when I saw him with a woman in a bikini, but despite my initial confusion, I couldn’t deny my fascination.
“Are you into Tom?” my dad would tease.
“Of course not!” I would retort, thinking to myself, it’s Magnum, not Tom.
Reflecting on it now, it’s evident that my admiration for Magnum stemmed from his safe presence. There was no threat in admiring him, and his shorts seemed far less scandalous back then. He combined charm and goofiness, and his playful banter with Higgins made him relatable. I could let my heart flutter and smile dreamily whenever he appeared on screen, free from the worry of judgment about my boyish demeanor. All I had to focus on were those eyebrows, that mustache, and the fantasy of riding alongside him in his Ferrari or sea kayak.
Indeed, Magnum was my first crush, the one who gently pierced through my tomboy heart and left an indelible impression.
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In summary, my childhood experiences shaped my identity, and my admiration for Magnum, P.I. represented a safe space in which I could explore feelings of affection without the constraints of societal norms. This blend of nostalgia, innocence, and budding emotions remains a cherished part of my journey.
Keyphrase: Magnum P.I. tomboy heart
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