Growing up in the ’80s, I never quite fit the mold of a traditional girly-girl. Instead, I embraced the label of tomboy—though I always found that term frustrating. I wasn’t a boy; I just preferred playing sports and climbing trees to dress-up and tea parties. Why wasn’t it called “tomgirl”?
During recess, I was always in the thick of the action, playing dodgeball—what we called slaughterball in Eugene, Oregon, circa 1981. We’d dash around the playground, either hunting down the ball or dodging it like pros. When the competition heated up, shouts of “Facial disgracial!” rang out. I did occasionally join the girls on the monkey bars, attempting daring drops, but I always gravitated back to the boys. They just felt easier to be around.
At home, my dead-end street was a playground filled with mostly boys. We’d gather in the no-man’s land between two houses, creating epic Star Wars battles with action figures. One of the boys had this awesome Darth Vader carrying case, and while the other girl in the neighborhood snagged the Princess Leia figure, I was happy with the quirky extras from Buck Rogers.
We were free-range kids long before that term became popular, playing until dusk and then stumbling home, dirty and hungry. My mom would be in the kitchen, often whipping up something with zucchini and cottage cheese. Back then, our family was still intact, with my parents’ divorce looming just a few years away.
“Did you have fun?” my mom would ask, to which I would respond, “Yeah! We played freeze tag and Star Wars. Can I watch TV?” She rarely said no, as I was hardly ever indoors.
Thursday nights were sacred: Magnum, P.I. was a must-see. I’d plop down on our shag carpet, chin resting in my hands, heart racing to the theme music. As soon as Tom Selleck appeared on-screen, I was mesmerized. When he flashed that signature eyebrow raise, my cheeks would flush. I didn’t quite understand why I was so captivated, but something about Magnum made my heart flutter.
“Got a crush on Tom?” my dad would tease. “No way!” I’d scoff, secretly thinking, it’s Magnum, not Tom.
Looking back, I realize what drew me to him: he felt safe. There was no danger in admiring him, and those shorts? In my younger eyes, they weren’t scandalous at all. He blended charm with goofiness, and his playful rivalry with Higgins made him seem like a lovable underdog. I could imagine knowing him, feeling my heart race without fear of judgment. My tomboy ways were welcomed in this fantasy world, and I could dream of riding in that Ferrari or sea kayak with him.
Yes, Magnum/Tom was my first crush, the one who truly pierced my tomboy heart. And he was a good one, no doubt about it.
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In summary, my childhood fascination with Magnum, P.I. not only provided entertainment but also allowed me to explore my identity without the constraints of traditional gender roles. It was a time when innocence met the beginnings of a crush, and Magnum was the perfect blend of charm and safety.