I spent this Valentine’s Day alone. I was in mourning for someone I loved very much who left us all recently. When he died, a little part of me died along with him.
Han Solo was different than all the other men. When he first appeared before my eyes, big, tall, and manly on that Drive-In movie screen, I ceased to be interested in Hello Kitty. I wanted to be near him, around him, close to him. I insisted on dressing just like his lover, Leia. I wore the white robe costume to school so much that my mother was seriously concerned for me. I couldn’t describe what I was feeling then. Now I know. Han Solo awakened my sexuality at the age of six.
You’re not supposed to have yearnings at that early age, but when presented with this cocky, galaxy-trotting outlaw, my supple brain chemistry was altered for years to come. A million men have waxed poetically or fantasized about Leia in the gold bikini. Well, something about the stuck-up, scruffy nerfherder burned inside of me. I would have gladly thrown myself at his feet -- after several rounds of witty repartee, of course. A scenario I played out in my mind and on the playground with silly Earth boys, countless times.
It is no surprise that, throughout the years, I hunted for a Han in real life. The bad boys on this planet paled in comparison to the rogue pilot of the Millennium Falcon. No one could rock a dirty Henley and low-slung belt with the arrogant confidence and swagger like he could. He always looked like he knew the secret to the universe, or at least a shortcut across it. I wanted a ride in his ship. I wanted to get to first base, second base, hell, any intergalactic base with this smuggling cowboy. The fact that he was out of work, deeply in debt and his car could barely start, didn’t really register at my young age. I just knew that he was fast and exciting and was everything I was looking for in a spaceman. The dude got frozen in carbonite for his friends, he took one for the team when it counted. Han didn’t bow down to royalty, he didn’t care who liked him, and he stared danger in the eye.
So, it was extremely disturbing to me to watch him die this Christmas.
As I sat there watching Han talk to The Most Vile Character Ever, I felt uneasy. Hadn’t we learned by now not to have a heart-to-heart, father son talk on a bridge that will plummet you into nothingness? When I saw the MOST HATED BRAT IN THE WORLD take his light saber and slice through my sexual fantasy, my hero, my youth, I gasped with my hand over my mouth. My bae taken down by a slouchy, stringy-haired emo punk? This moody brat just beat the man who shot first? Hell, no. The scene was short and cheap. The enormity of killing off an icon was glossed over, stuffed between explosions. I started bawling in the movie theater, loudly and openly. It was like the death of my childhood. It was like Jar Jar Abrams pissing on my dreams. It was like Disney telling me I am over the hill and past my sexual prime.
The movie may not have left any space to properly mourn for Han, but I’ve had time since. I may have gone through the stages of grief, and yet my anger is still fresh. I want revenge. I want Adam Driver's head on a platter. I want Mickey Mouse's head on a spike. I want Han Solo back, Ted Williams style, or however they have to do it. I don't care if he's a flashback, a force ghost, or reincarnated as a goddamned wisecracking Jawa. I want him back. I need to consummate my puppy love.
I don’t care about arguments of story structure, passing the baton, or letting Ford out of the franchise. Do Not Care. You don’t reboot a franchise just to kill off the sexy lynchpin of the movies, unless you want my boot up your afterburner.
You are on watch, Disney. You think Chewie is pissed? The strength of a Wookiee is no match for my fury. You don’t want to meet up with me in a dark alley. A woman avenging the death of her hot, space crush is a dangerous thing to behold.
In the meantime, I’ll be the one looking out into hyperspace saying “I love you, Han Solo.” Somewhere in a galaxy far, far away, I hope he’s saying “I know.”