There was a point where my mom was honestly afraid. The attic floor creaked under the weight of my comic book collection, risking the life of my little brother who slept in the floor below. Over time I’ve sold or given away some of my collection and cut down my collecting.
In each stage of my life, there was a different reason for the dwindling collection: I became more elitist about the comics I read, I needed the money or I might have actually started to care about my little brother’s life. But now I’m at the biggest stage of all, preparing to move out.
It’s got me thinking about how I’m going to judge which comic books I’ll be selling, what these stories have taught me, and the memories that are attached with almost every series.
This column is part comic book commentary, part nostalgic confessionals, all egocentric silliness that only a geek can provide. Hopefully there is a tenderness you can sense from my writing. There has to be. It isn’t without some sadness that I say goodbye to the superheroes that felt like they changed with me.
If you really think of it, we were pretty fortunate, us geeks who read superhero comics in high school.
Sure, people said you were escaping into a fantasy world, which you were. And sometimes you might have been subjected to teasing growing up. An argument can also be made that you could have spent the money on better things.
Hip new trendy clothes? A social life, maybe? But let’s face it, you weren’t hip, you weren’t trendy. And looking back now, you realize you had more of a social life than you probably thought so at the time.
But you did escape a little too often into the multiverse. But it was a meaningful type of escapism because comic-book superheroes, at their core, represented transformation and evolution. And during your adolescence, they really seemed to represent you. Sometimes you could relate to the hapless Peter Parker, the dangerous but surprisingly tender Wolverine, an enraged yet mournful Batman, or the kind and sometimes playful Clark Kent.
They spoke to you. They spoke to you at a time where everyone and everything seemed to be saying that you were going to start making important choices and have tremendous responsibilities. And superheroes could represent that, mind you hyperbolically, that sense of sudden power and individual agency that would define you.
I guess that’s why going through my comic-book collection has been the most powerful stimulus in making me nostalgic. A specific comic can feel like a trophy for surviving one month of your teenage life. Now at 25, you barely notice when a month passes.
When a memory is sparked by looking at a comic-book’s cover, I’m also finding myself judging who I was like a fictional character.
I’m looking into the exploits of teenage Cesar and I’m baffled at his taste, embarrassed at his choices and even confused by his actions. But like the watching the gleeful buffoon in a comedy, I’m also charmed by his manner and know everything will work out in the end.
At 25, I’ve already made a number of leaps of faith, fought several personal battles and survived actual tragedies. As I look through my comic books, judging which ones to keep and which ones to give away as I prepare to move out, I don’t only see the misadventures of spandex superheroes.
I remember myself when I wanted to be saved from problems, both trivial and serious, and found I was able to save myself.
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