starman, waiting in the sky

or: doctor who, dual citizenship, dads, and memories that become stories

My family did not attend church, but we did watch the BBC weekly. On Saturday nights, Doctor Who aired— this was our hour of worship and communion. Six of us gathered in a living room, the couch too small for the entire family. As the youngest, I’d end up on the floor;there was a space between the TV stand and the coffee table that I fit into perfectly. I’d push my feet into the bottom of the stand, stretching far enough that my head would press into the table legs above me. I enjoyed the friction this action provided, carpet fibers burning my calves. From this angle, the television appeared like a cinema screen, large and looming. While I began down here, I didn’t remain. I grew too terrified of the images on the screen, young enough to not know the difference between fiction and reality. I ended up wedged between my mom and dad, fusing our bodies together. My dad has a ring on his finger, a gift from an early graduation— it would catch in my hair, still long and unkempt. He’d tell me I was safe. His voice sounded similar to The Doctor’s, the madman hero with a box. Based on this, I knew he was telling the truth.

Doctor Who was at the center of my life, a cultural artifact I orbited around. It provided me curiosity, its creatures instilling within me a desire to see the world as peculiar and exciting. It made me confident, softening the self-deprecation that accompanies girls in their adolescence. Most importantly, it allowed me to understand my dad and the life he left behind. New Jersey and Newcastle upon Tyne are nowhere near each other— roads do not connect their paths, providing an easy way home. An ocean intersects any clear route, making the journey impossible. As a kid, I recognized that home was far away for him, but I didn’t know what home was. I tried to surmise from his gaze, the love and longing evident on a vulnerable face. There was an image trapped in the black of his pupils— a murky river and factory buildings, a football stadium overlooking town. It was different from New Jersey: older and compact. The Doctor, the last of the time lords, travels through space and time independently. He has no home to return to, often fixed with a pinched look when confronted about his loneliness. His human companions attempt to provide him a place of refuge on Earth, folding him into their mundane lives. This was my father and I— he seemed to be from the stars, drifting into my life by chance. He was a witty outsider who could take you on otherworldly trips, but made sure you were home for tea time. I wanted to be his companion, the lucky human blessed to go on adventures. More than that, I wanted to be a home, one that could make a life away from familiarity more comfortable. In the pilot episode “Rose,” companion Rose Tyler finds herself fighting the world alongside the Ninth Doctor, an alien with a Northern accent. She comments on such a quality, asking how he can sound this way if he’s an alien. I think of my dad, his Northern accent, and my insistent demands for him to repeat words like “trousers” and “chuffed.” When his peculiarities made me laugh, I’d give him part of my lunch.

In season nine of Doctor Who, the Twelfth Doctor relays to his companion, Clara Oswald, that “stories are where memories go when they are forgotten.” My memories of watching the show, and its impact on my childhood, have become stories. There are vivid images within my mind, stills of the television from my beloved spot on the floor. A stone angel, teeth bared and eyes dead. Billie Piper, who played the companion Rose Tyler, crying with her hand pressed to a wall. A child in a gas mask, lost amongst the London Streets. I don’t remember the first time I watched these episodes, but I remember the stories they produced. The stone angel became a childhood fear, leading to a humorous situation in Central Park. My mom asked me to climb the Alice and Wonderland statue— I refused, confident I’d be sent back in time. Rose Tyler, the crying girl, found solace with me. She was my favorite collectible action figure, a small toy meant for teenagers. I kept her in my dollhouse alongside various Barbies, the black sheep of my collection. The child in a gas mask became a household sensation, his eerie question, “Are you my mummy?” was repeated by all parties. More nebulous memories exist as well, not associated with episodes. My mother had painted TARDIS shoes that I’d put on, too big for my feet. I closed the door to her closet and walked in them, tripping over myself. I dressed as the Eleventh Doctor in fifth grade. Years later, I still fit into the jacket— I remember thumbing the tag at a debate conference, laughing at its presence. I had a TARDIS backpack in middle school— I met my best friend because of it. He sat next to me on the bus, a stranger I never anticipated, and complimented my bag. My father and I would frequent a local worldwide grocery, procuring English delicacies. Magic Stars were my favorite chocolate— they reminded me of The Doctor and the galaxies he traversed. I’d eat them during our weekly watch, sneaking my dad several pieces. After all, he was the man from far away, my Doctor.

One day, our routine was simply no more. Kids grew up, and the monsters got smaller, no longer perceived as real. Important figures said goodbye— my mother died, the biggest fan of us all. Our living room was packed up, home now elsewhere. My dad became less mythic and more human, a fact I could not yet handle. Our hour of worship was over. Doctor Who became a dusty knick-knack pushed to the back of the shelf, something loved yet abandoned. Time, the very concept the show is enthralled by, had become an opponent. I buried my stories in an unmarked grave, allowing them to fester. I never dug them up, and over the years, forgot their place within my life. I claimed it was a product of growing up, no longer needing fantasies. Realistically, it was self-preservation. Doctor Who was part of my life before tragedy and could not survive in the after. It belonged to a younger me who believed the world could squeeze hurt into something sweet. I didn’t want to wreck her enthusiasm— she didn’t need any more malice in her life. I want her love, unblemished, to forever exist. My omission led to an inevitable reconstruction of the past. In attempting to shelter my love, I made it invisible.

I haven’t watched Doctor Who in fourteen years. Two weeks ago, walking my friend to their car, I saw a decal for the show on their bumper. I tripped over myself, unexpectedly facing the past. There’s a scene in Twin Peaks: The Return where Bobby looks at a photo of Laura Palmer as a teenager, then promptly begins to cry. In an attempt to explain his overwhelming emotions, he says it “brings back a lot of memories.” I felt like Bobby in this instance, staring at an image that unlocks my past. After years of avoiding the subject, I struggled to find words to describe its place in my life. I’d left my stories in the dirt so long that I had lost them. Bobby’s words were close to what I eventually uttered— it brings back a lot of memories.

I recently watched Doctor Who for the first time in fourteen years. I felt foolish as I loaded it up, too small for my body. It felt wrong— none of the people who were supposed to be with me were here. I wanted to leave my skin, cower in a corner, and agonize over my overreaction. As it started, my stomach fluttered. It was a familiar stranger, an intense feeling of Déjà vu. I remembered everything and nothing all at once. I assumed being older would mean cringing at the show, aware of its age. I retrospectively wonder if this was my greatest fear— growing up and losing my wonder. I quickly and happily realized I was mistaken. While rewatching “The Time of Angels,” an episode featuring the Eleventh Doctor, I had to turn away from the screen and hide beneath my pillow. The Weeping Angels, the statues that once caused me distress, still had their effect. The success of a well-written, loved project is its commitment to an audience. It remains dedicated to you no matter your age, interested in telling a story. I’ve grown up to be a screenwriter working in TV and film— my career has changed my relationship to the show, but for the better. Working in film and TV means seeing each project as a car, desperate to pop the hood and figure out how it runs. I’m amazed at the efforts of the show and its longevity, engaging for various generations. It takes incredible effort to produce work— I’ve spent years perfecting features and pilots, satisfied with one episode. Doctor Who has decades of characters, worlds, and monsters. I’ve begun to study the movement of each season, curious how it acclimates to new figures taking on the same role. No matter who participates in the cast, there’s a balance between whimsy and melancholy. More than anything, I’m enamored with its ability to make extraterrestrial conflict human. We watch film and TV to see ourselves, moved by its ability to illustrate our lives. Doctor Who, with all its moving parts, is about searching for connection. It is this fact that helps me rediscover what I love most about the show— its relation to my dad.

My life is an echo of my father’s. I’ve followed in his footsteps, becoming a voyager in an unknown land. People now request that I repeat words, their noses humorously scrunching due to specific pronunciations. I wonder what my voice sounds like— strictly New Jersey, or an eclectic mix of Geordie and Jersey. I’d like my father’s heritage to be an obvious part of me, an indicator of his journey. My dad’s adventure, the risk of starting a life in America, has resulted in me. He remains my Doctor— an Englishman who has shown me the world, putting himself aside in the process. Every journey of ours exists within the fabric of this show. Amy Pond feeds a feverish Eleventh Doctor British cuisine, perplexed by his pickiness. A younger me sat with my father in an English pub, weary of his enjoyment of mushy peas. The same Doctor plays football with a local team, a secret sensation. My father watched me play football, the number of his favorite player displayed on my back (Alan Shearer, #9, the greatest forward in Newcastle’s history). Finally, the Ninth Doctor and his Northern accent, questioned by many. My dad’s voice, proudly Geordie, and my favorite accent in the world. It’s the sound of home.

A common question in film school is about the art that inspired your career. I’ve often cited The Lighthouse as the media that sparked my passion. If I were honest, the real answer would be Doctor Who, the show that taught me how crucial stories are. I have my father to thank for my dreams.

Dedicated to my dad, who remains my personal British madman with a box.

(This is me in a Doctor Who t-shirt and scarf. Fierce.)