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I have drawn the image in oil pastel and colored pencil I have cross-stitched it onto a sock and recreated it in beads. I cannot accurately convey the number of times that I drew this image of the couple in my childhood, but it quite likely matches the number of times that I have watched Beauty and the Beast (a number that is also roughly equivalent to my current weight). The now-iconic image of Belle in her custardy ballgown peering up to the Beast’s gigantic head became as essential to me as the gods in my temple - Lakshmi stately on her lotus floatie or Krishna poised to play his flute. Right from the moment that I met her, saw her, I was completely enamored of Belle, and my parents were thrilled that I chose to walk upright again after having “swum” across our living room floor for months.Īs I had with its aquatic predecessor, I bought the soundtrack to Beauty and the Beast on cassette tape with the coins that I usually reserved for Sweet Valley High paperbacks.
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The movie took over my life as swiftly as a magical curse could transform a maître d’ into a candelabrum.
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To put it succinctly, I think of my childhood as the first live-action version of Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. Instead, books opened themselves up to you and let you know their secrets, secrets you could share and keep when you felt that no one else could understand you or your extensive collection of Happy Meal toys arranged by year of release. Books didn’t pull your Sebastian the Crab drawing from under your delicately posed wrist and tear it up in front of you while others laughed. Books didn’t pinch your arm and talk about the odd darkness of your skin. Books didn’t point at you in the cafeteria and mimic your awkward sashay.
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I had spent my childhood as the proverbial nerd with a book in my hands at all times. So the idea that the fairy-tale extravaganza could be ostensibly continued - and in France, the Belle of countries - was enough to turn my purple face into an actual rainbow. I had spent the past year attempting to be Ariel the Little Mermaid wherever I went: slumping on couches with my feet locked together leaning sideways in front of my bathroom mirror with one hand held out longingly (“ Wish I could be …”) nearly drowning in my neighbor’s pool after sitting cross-legged on the bottom and trying to catch the just-right beam of sunlight that filtered down through the water. I was wearing a Mickey Mouse T-shirt and my bowl cut was secure under an oversize baseball cap that Huey, Dewey, and Louie would have envied until their beaks fell off. I first became aware that Disney was doing an animated version of Beauty and the Beast the same way we all did: by seeing a set of teaser images of Belle in her town square at MGM Studios in 1991, a trip my 12-year-old brown face had begged for until it turned purple. I wanted adventure in the great wide somewhere.