Harrison FOrd
Emma Burden | Spring 2022
It broke my heart when I realized I could never love Harrison Ford. I was 14 when reality set in. Not that he was a celebrity, or was 61 when I was born, but that I am a lesbian, and this man I thought was perfect was something that I can never have. Not that I would ever want him, because, truthfully, I never did, but because he was the person I told everyone I had a crush on. I didn’t know what a crush meant. I found him attractive because of his olive skin, and mousy hair, and masculine stature, and a
scar that
looks
like
this
diagonally across the bottom of his chin.
It broke my heart when I realized that thinking someone is attractive didn’t mean you were attracted to them, like when you’re shopping with your mother, and tell her that the pink tunic in the corner would look great on her. It’s her style, but it isn’t yours. In seventh grade, I was at a sleepover with the popular girls in my class, and they asked me about my sexual fantasies. I’d never had one about a woman yet, much less a man, but as a shy 12-year-old who desperately wanted to seem cool, I delivered a monologue about Harrison Ford. I got laughed at for hours. I wanted to say something about a woman - any woman. I think I would have only had to say a few words.
It broke my heart when I realized what I really wanted, when I laid in bed next to my best friend and tears came to my eyes, when I could feel my heart swelling against my will. I didn’t want to be a lesbian - I told myself I was bisexual, holding out a chance for my dream man, someone who ran away from boulders and wore navy pants with bloodstripes. I wasn’t even attracted to the real Harrison.
It broke my heart when I realized I didn’t want to be with him, but that I idolized him for doing what I couldn’t do. I was 13 when I read Carrie Fisher’s book The Princess Diarist, which is, tl;dr, about their affair. It was probably evident to everyone else that she was who I was really after, with posters of her in my room and a cardboard cut out of her in a metal bikini, begging her to follow me on Twitter while I was still in middle school. Maybe it’s because she’s brunette like I am, or only 5 feet tall, or that we were both diagnosed with bipolar disorder way too early on to understand. But, I still wished that it was him. And I would push away any woman that came into my mind who was my type, short and brunette and just as crazy as I am, and I would try to focus on my dream man. The closest I ever became to being attracted to Harrison Ford was when he played the U.S. President, but even then, I think my mind only wanted something heroic.
It broke my heart to recognize that I couldn’t love someone heroic, who could give me a hero’s love, that could lift me off my feet and protect me the way that Harrison Ford did in every 80’s action movie. Every girl I’ve ever loved has been too afraid to tell anyone about our feelings, and who could blame them? I grew up in a town of 600 people, and the New York-Hinge-Tinder-Same Six Lesbians In Brooklyn dating scene is too overwhelming for me. Who could blame me, for wanting a love that was unrealistic? I’m starting to think I should have stuck with him, because even if I couldn’t love Harrison Ford, I could continue pretending, and I could grow up to be an old woman on Facebook posting black-and-white photos of their celebrity crush when he was still alive (his time is coming soon). And if I kept pretending, I would never be happy, but I’d be happier than I am now, chasing the idea of pretty girls and sapphic love that I don’t think I am worthy of receiving.
I once dated a boy who told me we could watch Harrison Ford movies together. We never did. And we never even kissed, or met in person, just texting each other because of mutual friends. I cried watching Harrison Ford on Oprah saying that he supported lesbia relationships. I collect magazines with Harrison Ford on the cover.
It breaks my heart to know that I’ll never finish reading the viral Google Document on compulsory heterosexuality. I just can’t bring myself to do it, to admit that my one true love means nothing, because he’s not real to me, because I’ll never meet this man, and I only see him through a screen. That’s one of the key components, being a lesbian and thinking you’re attracted to someone on the television, because that isn’t a real man. That man only entertains your idea of a man, pretending to want what your parents tell you to want, a burly, strong man instead of a delicate woman.
The first time that my heart ever broke was when my mom told me I’m not a lesbian because I’m a Harrison Ford fan. In writing this, I’m trying to mend it.