Published September 23, 2018

For a film theory class I took in the early ’90s, I wrote a paper about “Moonstruck.” I got an A, though I had submitted incomplete work. I had omitted the part where I wanted to be like Cher.

The class was primarily for creative writing students in the MFA program at McNeese State University. Robert Olen Butler, who would soon win the Pulitzer Prize for fiction, was the instructor. The course was based on the premise that literature is cinema of the mind, and we watched, discussed and wrote about at least a dozen films that semester. “Moonstruck” was my choice for a major writing assignment, one in which I discussed the moon motif in detail.

What I did not write — and it had no legitimate place in the essay — was how badly I wanted to be like Cher every time I watched the movie. Understand that I did not want to live every aspect of Loretta Castorini’s life in those 102 minutes. No, just the roughly 90 seconds when she was getting ready to go to the opera after having her hair, eyebrows, makeup and nails done at, of all places, Cinderella Beauty Shop.

I’m talking about the part where she was getting dressed. A glass of red wine. Music playing. The glow and warmth of a fireplace. Opened boxes of shoes and clothes surrounding her. Putting on her lipstick in front of a full-length mirror. The ritual of it. The private dance of it. The slow self-care of it. All of what I can’t put into words.

I didn’t identify publicly as Carly, and I didn’t understand all of the powerful tugs on me during that scene, nor every time I thought about it later. I just knew that for as long as I could remember, I hated trying on clothes, hated getting dressed, hated looking in the mirror. I wanted what I was seeing Cher experience onscreen, but the particulars were still hiding underneath layers of skin, confusion and insecurity.

Today I gave myself permission to enjoy my version of that while getting ready for ROAR Fierce Female Storytelling’s Wild event at a nearby venue. There was no fireplace, no wine, and the only music was from the movie score and soundtrack. Instead of getting rid of the gray in my hair, my barber and I are working with my natural silver as I try to grow into a pixie cut that works for me. I don’t have a date, and I’m not going to the opera, but as with Cher’s character on that day, this night is a first for me. I have been wanting to attend a ROAR event for a long time, and their schedule and mine finally allowed it to happen.

I did my best to create motifs. The cranberry raspberry Diet Snapple that was a stand-in for the red wine matches my outfit pretty well. And although I look nothing like Cher — heck, mirrors and everyday life remind me that I look nothing like a woman — I felt a connection with her “Moonstruck” persona during that relaxed, gentle building of the style that I will wear as I walk out the door and head to my first ROAR experience.

Indeed, I could write a whole new essay about “Moonstruck,” even as I wish I still had the one I wrote for the film theory class. It was quite good, although I must admit that the moon and its phases and circles, literal and otherwise, wrote it for me as director Norman Jewison brought to life John Patrick Shanley’s screenplay.

I know now that before this past year, had I ever dressed myself as if it mattered, as if I mattered, and did so in front of a roaring fire, the shadow cast on the wall may well have given away the inner self that was aching to come out — but too afraid to dig deep enough to understand it all. And although my desire to be like Cher in that scene didn’t belong in the piece I wrote, it feels like it does now, as one more aspect of me coming full circle.

For me, for Carly, that’s a bella luna.

Illustration by taa22 via Shutterstock