Delmarva Review: Movies and Moving by Mia Mazzeo

Editor’s Note: Mia Mazzeo’s essay is the winner of the Talbot County High School-Talbot Arts-Delmarva Review Youth Writing Scholarship. The award was funded by a grant from Talbot Arts and included a writing mentorship with one of the journal’s editors, publication of the student’s prose in the Delmarva Review, and a financial award. 

Author’s Note: I’ve been a cinephile for a few years now, so I started writing this essay to pinpoint where exactly my love for movies began. Telling this story ended up being a very introspective experience, allowing me to reflect both on how much I’ve grown since my parent’s divorce and how film has significantly impacted my life. Movies allow us to form amazing connections and express ourselves in so many beautiful ways, and for those reasons, the silver screen will always hold a special place in my heart.

 

Movies and Moving

THE STAIRS of the apartment building creaked whenever I climbed them, no matter how I moved or where my feet fell. I learned this after a few times. The perpetually damp wooden boards, covered in mossy splotches and splinters, were far older than me. On the day I took that first step, however, I was not focused on the stairs’ rickety noises but on the world that was crumbling around them. 

Nobody tells you what it’s like visiting the other “home” for the first time after your parents get divorced. For me, that place was my father’s new apartment. Its pale-yellow walls and scratchy tan carpet made the rooms feel surreal, like I was entering a new dimension when I walked through the door. The unfamiliarity drifting through the air that first day was asphyxiating, tightening my throat, and making my eyes well with tears. I had sworn to myself that I was not going to cry. 

But standing there, in the middle of my father’s new apartment, my head began to fill with a dark, billowing storm. The news of my parents’ divorce, while expected, had never felt real to me before. Not when I noticed my father’s wedding ring was missing the day the split was announced, not even when he moved out a month later. But on that stifling June day, in a strange and sweltering apartment, a sense of anxiety overwhelmed me. The pounding in my ears grew louder—harsh thunder to my clouded, aching mind. A million questions pelted me like hard rain, but one stood out above the others: Was it all because of me? 

My father stopped me as I shuffled to my new room, backpack in hand, filled with just enough clothes and items to show I was “moving in.” I was never that close with him. He worked often and was gone for days at a time. The divorce only added to the distance, as we both became more reserved, talking infrequently and exchanging only small talk. My father, sensing my unease that first day, asked if I wanted to go to the movies the next time I came over. Back then, going to the movies was a rare occurrence. But I always enjoyed it, even if we would only go once or twice a year. My father’s offer was a golden opportunity that I hoped would distract my distressed mind, so I agreed to go. 

After that day, every time I walked into the movie theater with my father, I could not help but grin. We had begun a habit of seeing a movie whenever I visited the apartment, and I always looked forward to going. While it may have started as a simple distraction, it evolved into a beloved weekly tradition. 

There were so many little things I loved about our trips: stopping to look at the movie posters while walking into the theater, getting a big bucket of popcorn, and relaxing in the cozy chairs of the front row, which we had both boldly deemed to be the best seats in the whole theater. What my father loved most were the trailers. When a movie looked good, he would lean over and whisper that we had to see it right when it came out. He never failed to add that last part, which always made me smile. It meant that our ritual would continue, and we’d be rushing to the theater together again. 

What I loved most were our conversations after the movie. I would talk on and on about the characters and the writing, never even pausing to breathe. We would discuss every minute detail about the film and laugh all the way back to the apartment, a place I genuinely began to enjoy. Each trip brought serenity, I was never upset or anxious, and all my stress melted away with the rolling of the opening credits. Gradually, as the weeks went on, movies became one of the most important parts of my life, and with them so did my father. In our own coded language, we’d found a way to talk about things that mattered, shaped by the lives of movie characters. 

Then he moved hours away to be with his new wife, and our trips became a thing of the past. With a busy schedule filled with school, sports, and clubs, it became progressively more difficult for me to go see him. Our visits dwindled to a few days a year. But he could still visit me, my mother declared. A familiar gloom returned with this thought. I knew he would never be at my door holding movie tickets or popcorn because he was too busy with the life he was living far from me. I felt the rain return—a sad drizzle. Was it all because of me? 

I used to think so, but I don’t anymore. Many things in life happen out of our control, just like the weather. But even the most inclement days can feed our dreams. 

Through these showers, there was always a constant, a seed nurtured by rain into something beautiful: my love for movies, a love that has grown into an immense fascination with all things film. Now, I can spend hours dissecting screenwriting—from learning the rhythm of dialogue to studying the perfect way to build tension. Whenever I find myself caught up in swirling cinema lights, it brings me the same peace I had once felt with my father. Watching movies is like a time machine, sending me back to the dim theater I shared with him, fond memories playing any time I see the big screen. 

The vines of film reel have pulled me from darkness and made me more resilient than I was that first day in my father’s new apartment. Film and writing have fostered my creativity, giving me a positive outlet to share my thoughts and feelings with the world—sunshine on the face of a once closed-off girl. 

♦ 

Mia Mazzeo, a junior at Easton High School, is the recipient of  the Talbot County High School-Talbot Arts-Delmarva Review Youth Writing Scholarship (2023), with funding from a grant from Talbot Arts and supported by Talbot County Schools. The awarded student collaborates with one of the review’s editors to finalize the original prose for publication. The high school scholarship and mentoring initiative encourages outstanding writing among students in regional schools. Mazzeo is a member of the National Honors Society, Latin Honor Society, Latin club, Interact club, and Yearbook club. She is from St. Michaels, Maryland.

The Delmarva Review, a literary journal, reaches audiences regionally, nationally, and beyond, to give writers a desirable home in print (with an electronic edition) to present their most compelling new prose and poetry. This is a time when many commercial publications have closed their doors or are reducing literary content. For each annual edition, editors have culled through thousands of submissions to select the best of new poetry, fiction, and nonfiction. There is never a publishing or reading fee to the writers. The review is available from online booksellers and regional specialty bookstores. As a 501(c)(3) nonprofit, support comes from tax-deductible contributions and a grant from Talbot Arts with funds from the Maryland State Arts Council. Website: www.DelmarvaReview.org