The Comic Book Club

Comic signed by Tony S. Daniel                             Photograph by Karen Zea

Flipping through the glossy pages of these monthly issues brings a sense of comfort in my mind. They do not abandon you, pack their shit up and walk away. They remain there…they do not remind you of how problematic you may be or point out all your flaws, and they do not  laugh in your face or humiliate you in public, instead they are faithfully yours until you are ready to let them go. In my case never. Yes, I belong to that club…”Comic Book Junkies” and I have enlisted three more members, tiny little versions of me. These stories and adventures share with you a whole other world of mutants and characters with their multitude of emotions and imperfections. Not one is perfect and neither am I.

Dried tear stains covered my face as a child. I disliked being in crowded rooms or overwhelming situations…yes, I was that awkward child that choked at the mention of the words “get ready for school” or “mom is having a party.” My mother should have been the primary person that I ran to for comfort, but this was not so. She did not provide a nurturing or patient shoulder to cry on nor the open mind to hear out the daily burdens that I would carry for others, instead she told tales of my quirks and oddities to whomever would listen. Stories of me leaving sandbox playgrounds at the age of 4 or 5 just to sit next to strangers or a teary-eyed pregnant woman and share in their sadness or the 24 hour crying sprees of the child that could not bare to see a dead street cat abandoned so cowardly on the side of a busy road by whomever hit it and ran. I was as she called me in public, “Queti” (short for Que te importa? What do you care in Spanish) because instead of realizing that I too possessed those bionic ears my son has and could hear her through the walls no matter how much she whispered. She did not understand that I wasn’t purposely being nosy or trying to invade her conversations as I could not read cues to know when it was my turn to talk. Yes, I was that child that seemed to be an inconvenience to her ever so socially busy schedule. Most little girls flourish in the thoughts of “being just like mommy,” while I vowed to and worked desperately hard to be “just like daddy. I embraced the hunger to be unequivocally just like my step-father.  We called him “Sweetie” and that he was.

Photo of comic art: Rogue                                      Photograph by Karen Zea

This is where the comic books come in. They would be purchased for my brother as “girls should know their place.” I would sneak into his room and pull out  his floorboards where he hid things while he would go to bio-dad’s home, the only location in the world that would forever make me cringe because the villain that lived downstairs might find that “quiet little girl” and she was so good at keeping secrets. “No thanks!” I’d rather hide and bury my face into these man-made masterpieces that would take away my feeling of distrust and isolation that came from my family, the culture, and all that came with it because it is not easy growing up a loud-mouthed opinionated Latino girl in a man’s world, “she should know her place.”   Remember that closet?  It’s still there and the skeletons that remain still haunt me when the “freaks come out at night.” I struggled on and then finally found her, an entity that gave me strength, that gave me courage. Rogue was her name and she was an X-men. I didn’t feel so alone anymore. I felt like I was her in a Spanish version of course. Instead of the many “novelas” that decorated our bathroom floor, I would read comic books. I was happy again. Rogue had powers that many would undervalue, but hey she landed Mrs. Marvel in a coma. She was looked at as a “freak” by the non-mutant community and if she touched anyone or had skin-to-skin contact she would absorb all of their powers and energy, possibly killing them if she held on too long. These talents would later take their toll and drive her insane because she would also absorb their emotions and their memories. On to Xavier’s school she went, a sanctuary where she had to learn to control it or lose who she was completely. In many of these monthly issues she would feel crowded and have emotional outbursts. I was not alone anymore. I lived and breathed her pain because her biological parents wanted her gone and Xavier would take the place of someone who would love her unconditionally.

X-Men Comic Book Photo                                     Photograph by Karen Zea

Wolverine would later play a huge role in my subconscious. I loved his tough exterior, his “I don’t give a fuck” attitude, all of his imperfections, while hiding a sentimental fool underneath. Best of all, he would kick-ass when need be, so move over the Cyclops ninnies, a real man is in town. I found this man in real life, can you believe it? Boy oh boy, has it been a roller-coaster ride, but I am happy.  He sure didn’t pack his shit up and walk away, he stood by through the good, the bad, and the ugly.  “The pain lets you know you’re still alive,” -Wolverine.

Found Wolverine!                                        Photograph by Francisco Hernandez

“Bub, I go where I wanna go,” and that we did. Comic-Cons, Wonder-cons, the kids loved it, and so did I.  We’ve met some amazing artists along the way, like the clever and witty writer Stan Lee whom shared with us many countless stories of what it took to create his famous and beloved comic book characters, Tony S. Daniel signing our comic books, and taking the time to discuss his art with each individual fan including my kids.  Arthur Suydam, genuinely sweet man, who was selfless enough to give all of my kids free signed artwork because he loved our family dynamic, or the kind Shannon Denton that drew a Deadpool sketch for my son, as he hid under the table, banging and banging it like a drum as he sketched away.  Denton never skipped a beat and the following year recognized my son in a crowd, those are the moments that I cherish, that I hold dear because my kiddos will never forget that imagination and creativity is a must in such a hectic, cruel world. Many devoted fans  dress up like their favorite comic book heroes while making these conventions that much more exciting.  The adults that do dress up like it’s Halloween and reminisce of their childhood superheroes and villains are energized by it all. They are a family that reconnects once a year without the grudges and the bullshit that comes with blood relatives, all the misfits that don’t fit in, or the kiddos that find themselves just a tad small in a world that is scarily harsh.

“Stan the Man” Lee                                            Photograph by Karen Zea

Superman Man of Steel spoke to me on so many levels, watching Clark in the janitor’s closet and not being able to ask for help.  Yes, the meltdown was unavoidable at school when Clark became overwhelmed by his highly sensitive alien body and of course the bullies, the mean kids, and spectators were there to gawk, point, and laugh. This seemed all too real and yes, I cried.  These images hit home and reminded me of the countless times I called my son, my little “Superman.” Many of these stories can relate to those with Autism, those who are highly sensitive, and those that feel like they are in a world that is foreign to them. My son was never much of a reader as his attention span was stressing always on other things like how uncomfortable his shoes were or the shirt  seams clawing at his back, but give him a comic book early on and he could stay there for days.  I thought “Hey, as long as he’s reading right?”  I asked my doctor in conversation and he said let him be, the vocabulary in those comics are college level. On that note, when the district tested him in 8th grade,  he was reading at college level.  No complaints here. The next time you decide to walk by and away from a comic book store think twice because you never know what next adventure you may walk into.

Shannon Denton Sketch                                  Photograph by Karen Zea