Being A Star Wars

Why, Star Wars? Why have you forsaken me?

I’ve given you 32 years of my life. We’ve been through so much together. The good times (Star Wars, Empire Strikes Back), the bad times (Pretty much all the other movies). I’ve defended your honor against the Trekkies and the Lord Of the Rings guys (“Lordies?”). I’ve built countless models and painstakingly applied tiny stickers to that damned Millennium Falcon. I even sent away for that Boba Fett in 1979, which I still have.

And this is how you repay me?

Last night, Diana told me when she picked up Elijah from school, she was informed that he had an “incident.” An incident involving him punching and kicking another kid. Now, this is the same kid who bit him a few months ago, but that doesn’t make it right.

I said, “Meh, what are you going to do? Kids are kids…”

She said, “Do you want to know why he hit and kicked?”

I felt a disturbance in the Force.

“He said he was ‘Being A Star Wars.’”

Noooooooooooooooo! Come on. Being a Star Wars? He’s never even seen a minute of Star Wars. And suddenly it gives him an excuse to start acting like Ponda Baba (look it up, non nerds).

I could see on Diana’s face that I was in danger of losing my dream to build a nerd in my image. I sheepishly said, “Does this mean we have to throw away his Star Wars stuff?”

Diana said, “I don’t know.” Ominously.

So when Eli woke up this morning, I gave him a good talking to.

“Hey man. I want you to listen to me. When you play Star Wars, you can’t punch or kick. Star Wars is for good guys. You have to be a good guy. No hitting. Not kicking. That’s not cool. Do you understand? No hitting.”

He said, “There’s a machine with a button and when you touch the button it goes beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep.”