Mad Men and Me

There are many many reason for my Mad Men obsession. One is the breathtakingly masculine, bourbon swilling, Marlboro smoking, lady killing Don Draper. What is it about him that is so appealing? He doesn't breathe, he exudes. In one scene he is shoving his wife against a wall, in another he is frying hamburgers for his anxious daughter. In one scene he is the mouthpiece of morality, chastising his boss for his foolish behavior, in another he invites a stewardess to his hotel room. Likeable? Not one bit. When he is on screen, I can't take my eyes off him.

Then there is the setting, which is a character on its own: the year 1963. I was 6 in 1963. Watching the scenes involving the Draper family has surprised me by releasing dormant memories. I'm recalling events I thought I forgot. The Drapers go on a picnic in their brand new Cadillac. At the end of the picnic, Don shakes out the blanket; napkins, paper plates, soda bottles spew onto the grass. He rolls up the blanket and off they go. I remember clearly being told to just throw trash out of the car window when I was a child.

Another scene has Sally Draper, maybe 8 years old, driving a car down the road, while being instructed by her grandfather who was seated in the passenger seat. My flashback: sitting on my father's lap and steering the car while he worked the pedals. I hadn't thought about that in years. My parents were divorced and my memories of my father are complicated and not complimentary. Thinking about “driving,” though, I remember us laughing and laughing.

In a recent episode Betty Draper gives birth to her third child. Don drops her at the hospital and is told by the nurse that his work is done; he is relegated to the waiting room while Betty gets wheeled away. She is drugged to the max and wakes up with voila! a new baby boy. Since it is 1963, she remains in the hospital for more than 1 day. Don brings his 2 other children to visit, but kids are not allowed inside so there is a scene in which they stand on the sidewalk, waving up to Betty at the window holding the new baby.

I call my mother. “Did my father take me to the hospital to see you after S. was born? Did I stand down on the sidewalk with him while you stood at the window holding the baby, waving? Was I wearing cowboy boots?” “Yup,” she said. I was 3 years old.

Let the analysis begin.