Jeanine Basinger

Corwin-Fuller Professor of Film Studies and Chair, Film Studies Department, Wesleyan University; Curator, Wesleyan Cinema Archives

My parents claim I was born at home on my mother's birthday, but they have no proof. I remember when I first came alive. I opened my eyes in the darkness. Gene Autry waved. I flew over the rainbow, and a tear formed in the corner of Ingrid Bergman's eye. Betty Grable tap-danced on her pin-up legs, and Rita Hayworth laid some serious blame on Mame. Bing Crosby crooned "White Christmas," Fred Astaire danced with firecrackers, and it rained on Gene Kelly. Abbott and Costello tried to figure out who was on first while Betty Hutton's rocking horse ran away. John Wayne rode up with the cavalry. The American flag flew triumphantly, and I bought a war bond. Elvis Presley gyrated because he really wanted to dance with me, but Marilyn Monroe's skirt was blowing up. Where was James Bond to help? Indiana Jones? Clint Eastwood rode in on a mule carrying a "make love, not war" sign. Obi-wan Kenobi applauded.

Maybe I was born at home on my mother's birthday, but nobody can prove it. No matter. I can find myself. I follow the signposts back to my past and never get lost. Come up and see me sometime. I'll take you back with me. We'll drink ice-cold Coke in a slim green bottle and eat popcorn from a red-and-white striped box. I'll show you my wonderful life, and you can meet all my beautiful friends.