My teen years were in the 90s, cradled between recessions. We had handkerchief-hem tops and UK garage and feelings, man. Well, I certainly did, and that’s why no photos of me as a teen survived – I burned them all in one spectacular fit of teen Sturm und Drang. But thank heaven for telly, which was full of beautiful (but still normal-looking) American teens talking it all out, long-winded and so damn emotional, too. For me, no one did it better than Dawson’s Creek.
The show was the creative baby of Kevin Williamson, but a fair few of us staked a claim, too: Dawson, Joey, Pacey and Jen sometimes felt as close to me as my real-life friends. Their trials became my own: shy Joey, with a need to please but terrified of falling short, was my Patronus, but I loved them all. Entitled and whiny Dawson; semi-damaged and charming Pacey; wild-child-with-a-heart-of-gold Jen. It was all magic for my eyes and heart. I laughed, I cried, my God, I pined.
I knew these “teens” (James Van Der Beek had to shave twice a day to look younger) weren’t like me in many ways, but they gave me a lexicon with which I could navigate my own life. The fictional town of Capeside had it all: unrequited, grandly declared love, family strife, mental illness, tortured sexuality and even a little light racism. It is the sound of my teenage years. I mean that literally: I bought the soundtrack on CD.
These days the cast is largely still working, a small victory in Hollywood, and the show is considered a modern classic. Sometimes I watch clips on YouTube. I still feel giddy every time.
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