When I was a kid, my grandma showed me Grease (1978)—needless to say, I fell in love with it. The score absolutely won me over, and sometimes, I still can’t get “Summer Nights” to worm its way out of my brain. But the characters were the sparkle that made it shimmer like it did. Their teenhood was the one that I wanted, so I’d covetously and religiously rewind it just for a glimpse. The teens on screen caught my eye—but it was the knowledge I’d be like them soon enough that gave me chills and electrified me.
A typical day in high school for them consisted of maybe a few academic minutes and a whole lot of thrill—picture-perfect protagonists, dazzling plotlines, and, of course, the rip-roaring romances that made it all happen. My admiration for Grease cemented it as an adolescent anthem in my mind. While I didn’t expect my classmates to break into flawless song and dance, I expected the day-to-day hubbub portrayed in the film: consistent social gatherings teeming with idyllic congeniality, a story as sugary sweet as Sandy and Danny’s, and a picture with as much motion on the one on screen. I can’t help but imagine many of us expected romance and all-encompassing radiance only to find that this wasn’t the case. During the “Summer Nights” scene, I’d most likely be fleshing out chemical formulas, and instead of locking lips at the drive-in, I’d be outlining Duiker/Spielvogel’s World History: Tenth Edition. At first, this disheartened my inner child, who felt I was doing myself a disservice and ruining my “golden years.” Yet I had a feeling the silver screen did me one too—if an outstandingly vibrant teenage life was idealistic for me (and so many, I can imagine), then maybe misrepresentations of us in the media are, too. Fanciful scripts so clearly written by adults forgo the reality: an inundation of heady escapades creates the illusion that they are at the forefront of our lives, even if our lives are vastly different.
Across the decades, a myriad of shows have sizzled with electric romances and fiery subplots, dominating character arcs even if they rarely steal the thunder of teenage life. Take cult classics such as Gilmore Girls and Gossip Girl, and even Netflix-era novelties to the likes of The Summer I Turned Pretty and Outer Banks. Even with the radiant presence of other uniquely teenage elements, such as academics, family relationships, and friendships, these players rarely ever take center stage and seemingly only exist to thrust romantic developments into the spotlight. Because of this, what has the potential to be holistic and authentic turns phony and saccharine.
Only detracting further from the credibility of young adult shows are the actors and actresses, who, at best, look too old to sit next to you in English and, at worst, drain our positive body image and self-esteem. Blake Lively was 20 years old when filming Gossip Girl. In an even bigger age gap, Outer Banks’ Madelyn Cline was 23—nearly a decade older than 16-year-old Sarah Cameron, whom she played. Chad Michael Murray was 21 in One Tree Hill (playing a 16-year-old). Milo Ventimiglia was 24 in Gilmore Girls.
Gaps like this, while conventional in TV and Film, contain intrinsically false realities that can negatively affect our self-perception, physically and otherwise. In adolescence, the tunes of our lives and bodies can quickly change keys. So, caught up in the tune from the TV, we notice the golden glamor that we lack on the screen. It creates this feeling that we’re off-tempo when, in reality, we are precisely on beat. Because of heightened insecurity, however, we let this get to us and our minds begin to wander. Without even realizing it, we tend to make harmful, often false connections that distract us from our own self-realization—something that should be our top priority as teenagers.
Even if we aren’t in front of a screen, as we develop into teenagers, the rocky childhood perceptions of adolescence from the screen warp our view of ourselves—unless you’re living under a rock. The truth is this: all media is meticulously crafted to appeal to teens. Whether it’s a series, a film, or a magazine, anything that reliably mirrors our own life is too intelligent for the masses. Bright, shiny over-dramatizations of shocking thrill, glitzy glamor, and alluring romance are attractive—if they weren’t, the vast multitude of hues in our own life would appear comedic, tragic, and everything in between. In other words, our own lives would seem too beautiful. That means our self-viewership would skyrocket, and the channels and studios’ would plummet.
A glance at the screen can be fun, even healthy in the way you might gain a new perspective on life. But being glued to it can be dangerous, and if you trade your own views for the media’s fantastical realm of teens, you inevitably forget who you are. The standard of veracity becomes hazy. Without realizing it, you’ll be ensnared in a world where you can always look but never touch. The screen can be harsh in seemingly blocking you from “true” self-realization, and the isolation can be as unforgiving as a padded room. A vicious cycle starts thereafter: you’ll forever be chasing an idealized level of awe that’s always just out of reach.
For the sake of your own inner peace, reconsider your insecurities, how they may have stemmed from what you saw on screen, and why they lack feasibility. If you think your life is bland, maybe you’ve just been expecting it to reflect an idealistic standard of thrill. If you feel dull, maybe you’ve been expecting to glow with a fluorescence made possible only by set lights—and you might even come to find that authentic adolescence is even more golden than the silver screen.
