I watched Gone With the Wind some embarrassing number of times around the year of its 50th anniversary release, and then I read the book twice. I wouldn’t say I identified with Scarlett O’Hara though. I would never have married Charles Hamilton. Her self-preservation instinct was just so much stronger than I can ever imagine mine being, probably because I grew up with air conditioning and very little exposure to war.

When I was 14, we moved to Connecticut where I had two friends, some whole wheat croissants, and a copy of Vivien Leigh’s biography, which turned out to be mildly smutty. There was a fun role model! I don’t have it anymore, so I can’t go back and check on these things, but this is my impression of that book: Vivien Leigh hated to leave a party early but got up early to make everyone breakfast and never had or at least never complained of a hangover. At some point, she married Lawrence Olivier, who was a virgin until age 24. I wonder if he was insecure about that. Vivien didn’t like her hands. Maybe they commiserated. Actors.

When I took a film class in college, I was surprised to learn Blaxploitation had nothing to do with Butterfly McQueen. I guess I was less surprised my film professor didn’t share my enthusiasm for Gone With the Wind. I think that was exactly how he put it, though he let me get away with one of those papers that must be so tedious to read, where every casual detail is meaningful. I remember, for instance, making something of the one black and one white puppy (or was there also a kitten?—interspecies would have been even better) spooning on the front porch while the Tarleton twins explained why they needed to join the Rebel Army. That paper was so boring, I think it cured me.