When I first came to the United States, I brought with me my one stuffed animal: a Mickey Mouse plush. My dad (well, stepdad) sent it to me in China when he was courting my mother. And so my adoration for animation began early on…
At my first home in the US, I would wake up very, very early in the morning and slink around the dark house until I was sure that everyone else was still in bed, tip toe into the den and curl up in the big, squishy recliner. I’d wrap one of my grandmother’s quilts around me and turn on the television. Ok, it was 4AM. Nothing’s on but static. But around 5AM, the first cartoons would flicker onto the screen: usually something Hanna Barbera–Flintstones, Jetsons, Yogi Bear, or Tom & Jerry.
Then came the classic Disney shorts, one of which scared me out of my mind. It was something about a fox tricking some chickens in a coop; I don’t remember much about the plot. But the last scene will stay in my nightmares forever: the fox licking a chicken bone, and then slowly–with such malignant satisfaction–sticking the bone into a graveyard of chicken remains.
