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I got
into comic books when I was in the fourth or fifth grade.
For Christmas one year, I received a monster-sized box of
DC comics, possibly some type of collection of discarded newspaper
stand copies. Suddenly, I had dozens, possibly a hundred,
issues of such titles as Batman, Justice League,
and Green Lantern. I devoured them. I still wasn't
collecting comics, but now they were part of my cultural literacy
and absorbed into my life: an inexpensive form of entertainment.
My parents would get an issue or two of Spiderman before a
long family car-trip to keep me occupied (which occasionally
made me car sick, so the books were summarily vomited upon.
Sorry, Stan Lee).
 When
I started realizing that getting mail was fun, I wanted to
get a subscription to a comic book. Marvel comics (my ten-year-old
self's publishing house of choice) had fairly cheap subscription
services that a dude who got a $2 weekly allowance could afford
with minimal saving. For whatever reason, I chose Daredevil,
and reveled in those monthly doses of excitement and action,
in addition to the occasional comics I would buy when hanging
out with friends.
I meticulously
put all the issues of every comic I read into Mylar bags with
cardboard backing, like any good collector would, though I
would read certain issues numerous times, completely destroying
them in the process. But, back in the bag they'd go. My dog-eared,
ratty copies of The Awesome Slapstick were, after
all, most assuredly going to be worth serious money someday.
All of them went, alphabetized, into my little plastic file
cabinet in my closet, which held no interest to my family.
Why would they want to see what the X-Men were doing? (Of
course, this disinterest made it the perfect place to hide
Playboys I got from my friend's older stepbrother in
later, more hormonal years. But I digress.)
Then,
for no discernible reason, I simply stopped reading comics.
Sometime in junior high school, I just didn't read them anymore.
Perhaps it was a shift to other interests (the nicked Playboys,
spring to mind), or that I was actually reading more "real"
books that I felt I didn't need comics anymore. And, simply,
it just didn't seem like the kind of thing a seventh grader
trying to fit in did. I simply outgrew the need for costumed
crime-fighters.
But our
separation wasn't to last. During high school, my friend Brett
told me about Jhonen Vasquez's Johnny the Homicidal Maniac
(which, shock of shocks, rings really well with angsty teenagers
who spend a lot of time at punk rock shows). This second wave
of comic fandom consisted of JTHM, discovering more
independent comics, Ghost World, and comics geared
towards a more adult audience. I was no longer "too old" for
comics, as there were a wealth of them out there that were
either not written with children in mind or were of a nature
that most parents would do their damnedest to keep out of
their child's hands.
 The
realization came, late of course, that instead of the average
superhero comic that had a revolving cast of in-house artists
and writers (at least to the casual, youthful reader), many
comics had creators-creators whose names could be found
on other titles and projects. This led to my discovery of
such authors as Alan Moore, Neil Gaiman, Garth Ennis, Mike
Allred, and Art Spiegelman. I delved further into independent,
small-press stuff. My friend Sierra and I would walk to a
shop across the street from our university between classes
and pick up books by James Kochalka, Daniel Clowes, and Harvey
Pekar-authors with rich, engaging stories. They were tales,
cleverly and emotionally told, with artwork that is visually
appealing, evocative, unique, and complementary to the story
at hand. Award-winning literary ability with intriguing narratives.
Mainstream Hollywood fights over the rights to move them to
(or butcher them on) the silver screen, seeing dollar signs
in fresh, well-written stories that the pap-mills of the studios
rarely attain. These books, these artists, these writers all
have astounding literary and artistic ability, but they have
been forced into the margins of society.
But these
stories weren't the "whack! pow!" fodder of my superhero past.
These comics had literary merit that the snobs would have
to recognize. Artists like Chris Ware-who was working at-length
with solid adult edifices like NPR's "This American Life"
or penning the cover and editing the all-comics issue of McSweeney's
(#13, if you're looking)-gained respectable ground in the
world of "normal" society. Comics are branching out into the
mainstream. Recently, Spider-Man 3 set the world record
for largest movie opening ever, with more than 80% of that
weekend's entire movie-going population attending a showing.
Independent comics are becoming hip to read, and mainstream
comics continue to gain acceptance. Superman and Batman remain
seated among the largest pop-culture touchstones, bringing
new comic fans to the medium every day.
 Through
it all, though, there was this hint of shame in my comic reading.
It is impossible not to admit that there is a negative stigma
attached to reading comic books and graphic novels. When society
paints a picture of the comic book fan, it's an under- or
overweight male, bespectacled, possibly with acne, dateless,
living in a parent's basement and obsessing over issue numbers
and title crossovers. Of course there is a nugget of truth
to the portrait, but we all know people who read comics and
don't fit the mold. Yet people won't admit to reading comics
because they don't want to offer a shorthand first impression
of a basement-dwelling, socially awkward example of poor hygiene.
Essentially,
we need to take back the image of the graphic novel reader.
Reading comics and graphic novels will never truly be taken
seriously as a legitimate activity unless the image of the
person who enjoys it is less marginalized. So, I'd like to
take this opportunity to admit to being a comic book fan (in
case you missed the point of the last several paragraphs).
I don't live with my parents. I don't have acne. I'm cool
enough to have a job as music director of a college radio
station at which I also host a radio show. I am comfortable
talking to girls and have even dated a few of them in my time.
You have
to be allowed to like what you like. Maybe the very fact that
comics aren't supercool is part of the draw. Getting enthused
about the monthly goings-on of superheroes and the like is
part of my personality. Hell, when the guy at my comic book
store tried to give me the issue of Buffy #3 with the
variant cover not featuring Willow, I had to be restrained
by a group of dudes playing Magic: The Gathering as I tried
to fling myself across the counter to tear out his throat
with my teeth. I refuse to apologize for my enjoyment of comic
books and graphic novels. It's not a guilty pleasure, as I
refuse to experience guilt about what I love.
(June,
2007)
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