by Mike Madrid
Today I had my annual visit with my family.
This was not the family that I was born into. I see them regularly. The family that I spent the day with today is my other family. As with most families, we haven't always gotten along. I haven't always felt that they accepted me. At times, I've been a little, no, quite embarrassed by them. We don't always see eye to eye, and can have major disagreements about important issues. But, as with most relations, I can't deny the essential bond that I have with my second family. Essentially, we understand each other like no one else does, and a bond of love unites us.
What I did today was go to a comic book convention. It happens every year at this time, runs from Friday to Sunday. For those of you who don't know about these things, a comic book convention is a mecca for geeks. There's a large showroom with dealers from around the country selling old comics, toys, collectibles, original art, movie memorabilia, DVD's, you name it. There are also comic book artists in attendance signing comics, faded movie, TV personalities and pinup queens selling autographed photographs, panel discussions with industry professionals, movie screenings. I usually try to go the first day to avoid the crowds. That's partly because I want to see the selection of goods before it's picked over, and partly because I'm an incredible snob.
I somehow think that just because I read both Wonder Woman and Vanity Fair, because I have seen Cate Blanchett in movies other than Lord Of The Rings, and because I don't live in a basement apartment in my mother's house, that I'm more sophisticated than the average comic book fan. The poor, much maligned comic book fan has a terrible reputation as a greasy haired, overweight clod with retarded social skills, still obsessed with cheap pulp entertainment meant for kids. And it's a stereotype that I must admit that I have perpetuated about my brethren. Like the other geeks, I go to the comic book shop on Wednesdays when the new books come out, so eager to snatch up the latest adventures of my favorite heroes. On occasion I chat with my fellow patrons and the shop employees about the latest comics. Sometimes the conversation can get quite intellectual and heady, sort of a comic book Algonquin round table. But usually I stick to myself, because I don't feel that I have that much in common with other comic book fans. And, I must admit to feeling a bit superior when I leave the shop to go back to a home that I own, where I don't lay my head down on Spider-Man bed sheets.
So, I went to the convention hoping to find some comics to fill in a few holes in my collection. But I didn't think that I'd get my outlook about my family altered in the process.
In the past when I've gone to conventions, the unusual assemblage of people has always struck me. The classic hefty, middle aged fanboy who still lives at home, the skinny 30ish Lord Of The Rings nerd who still dresses the way that he did in junior high, the plump, crimson haired Goth girl wearing Raggedy Ann tights, the indie press hipster guy with his mutton chops and tattooed arms. They all have a particular manner about them, and speak either in a self-conscious, florid language, complete stream of consciousness patter, or in an almost incomprehensible speech pattern. I've always observed them from a bit of a distance, as I never feel a clear rapport with anyone, even though we have a common interest.
But this visit was different. Maybe it's because the first person that I talked to was Nick Cardy, a veteran artist signing comic books that he had drawn. I've always been an admirer of Mr. Cardy's work, and meeting him was a real celebrity encounter for me. I gushed about his great cover designs from the 1960's, how I thought that he drew the best Wonder Girl, and my fondness for a particular Brave and the Bold issue he had drawn. He seemed genuinely touched by my interest, and said that it was because of fans like me that older artists like him weren't forgotten. When a stoner type sauntered up and asked Mr. Cardy whether he was the artist who had drawn E-Man, I leapt to his defense. With a somewhat imperious tone, I informed the stoner dude that Mr. Cardy had drawn the classic Teen Titans stories of the '60's, with the same reverence as one would bestow on a hero of WWII. Because, at that moment I saw him as the older uncle or grandfather who felt overlooked by the passage of time in the family. And it was then that I had a different perspective on my surroundings.
As I looked around, I saw the crowds assembled here in a new light. Sure, they may look like a collection of losers to most people, but this group was now somehow strangely endearing to me. They may have different tastes, they may vehemently disagree on trivial things like whether Batman is cooler than Spider-man, but that common love of comics is undeniable. These were my own tired, poor and huddled masses yearning to breathe free. These were people who still found freedom in a youthful optimism and the idealized concept of what "American" once meant–liberty and justice. And, as I looked around the room, I saw a lot of happy faces, which these days can be a rare sight.
My community is united by a common love of comic books, which is one of the truly American art forms. And as a comic book fan get older, that passion often becomes the other "love which dares not speak its name." Often the love of comics is a solitary passion that fans don't get much of a chance to talk to others about, or are a little embarrassed about. Sure, there are the Internet message boards where people can discuss their favorite comics, but it's not the same as real human interaction. So for a comic book fan, these conventions are a chance to truly be oneself. To freely and unapologetically revel in this thing that you love, and to do it with others like you. To see pieces of original comic book art that to you is the equivalent of going to the Louvre, and to see legendary vintage comics that to you are as famous as valuable antiques. To find that one comic that you have been searching for for years, that will fill that hole in your world. To meet the comic creators who have brought you so much happiness in life. And to be around other people who will understand this part of your life as few other people in your life might.
Going to a comic book convention is enlightening because you really get to see the variety of people in the comics community. A 40ish, suburban dad who collects Green Lantern comics from the '60's scoured the room for a mint copy of an issue that he needed. A group of teenagers pushed their wheelchair bound friend around the dealers' room, and he was having the time of his life. A 30ish alternate type who collected obscure Christian comics extolled the merits of a cautionary tale called Hansi, The Girl Who Loved The Swastika. A very popular and openly gay comic book writer/artist spoke about his work to a roomful of fans of all ages and colors. And then there is that most rare flower of the geek species that you see at comics conventions–the female comic book fan. Though not seen as often as their male counterparts, they are just as passionate about their collecting. In a world that is becoming increasingly segmented by race, religion, sexual orientation, and lifestyle, comic book geekdom can be a great equalizer. There are people bonded by a common interest regardless of their backgrounds, which, sad to say, is not something that you encounter that much anymore.
The panel discussions at comic book conventions are quite interesting. These take place in a hotel conference room, where representatives from the major publishers basically dangle tidbits of information and teasers in front of us geeks to fire up our anticipation and get us to keep reading their comics for another year. We fall for it, and here's why. For a lot of comic book fans, these characters that we love have become an extended set of friends that make up for the exciting, glamorous friends we may not have made in real life. So, over the years, we develop relationships with these characters as we follow them through harrowing adventures, heartbreak, failed romances, tragedy, happiness, death, etc. When the representatives from DC Comics leaked that Green Arrow would be proposing to Black Canary this year, a wave of squeals and applause filled the room. I felt my eyes grow misty, my throat tighten, as though I'd heard happy news about some dear friends. When the time comes for questions from the audience, fans try to get information about their favorite characters. Will Blue Beetle come back from the dead? When will we see Mary Marvel again? Will we ever find out if The Flash is still alive? There is a sense of tension in the room, as fans have only a limited time to glean some vital information about their loved ones. Pens scratch away at note pads to capture the bits of information that the company reps dole out. It almost feels like the press conferences that take place after an airline, where people desperately try to find out the fates of their next of kin.
As with any family, the question of bloodline and legacy comes up in the comic book fan community. We collect a genre that was originally intended to entertain kids, but that has grown into something more complex and (I hesitate to say it) mature over the last 30 years. For many years, comics have been geared to an older, usually male audience. Pick up an issue of Spider-man these days, and you'll see it filled with car ads rather than bubble gum ads. When I go to the comic book store, I generally see mostly 30ish guys, not kids, buying books. So the question always arises as to whether we are following a dying art, and whether it has become too adult to attract younger readers. When I went to one panel discussion, a high-pitched voice cut through the room during the question and answer session. It was an eight-year-old boy, asking questions about his favorite character, Robin. The room was filled with excitement, waves of applause broke out after the kid asked his question. He was the future for the family. He was a kid who read comics, and could carry on the family name of Geek. It was kids like him, the keepers of the flame that would hopefully continue to support the industry in the future, and keep it going for all of the older geeks to enjoy.
There is one dealer that I always seek out at these conventions because he is one of the few who sells old romance comics. This year he had a particularly good selection of the titles from the early 1960's, my favorite era. An Asian American woman about my age was browsing in the box next to me. I couldn't help but wax on about the comics that I was finding. When I was ready to make my purchase, she asked to see if she could look at my selections. Here was cover after cover showing beautiful teary-eyed girls and handsome men, soigné nurses and manly doctors, dreamy stewardesses and wavy haired lifeguards. My new friend was impressed at the beauty and composition of the covers, and said that I had a great eye. She asked if I was an artist, and I told her I was an art director. We talked for a while about our interest in romance comics and the different artists that we liked. If we had passed each other in the street, we would have never struck up a conversation like this, but the geek in us drew us together. Like dogs that get excited when they encounter another of their kind, a comic book geek really opens up when he or she crosses paths with another. You can't deny that part of your persona. In a world where people are become more and more isolated, comic book geekdom can still break down walls.
So, I've come to terms with my geekiness. I may not be inviting the gang from the comic book shop over for dinner anytime soon, but I have a new appreciation for my people. And who am I to judge others, when, after all, I have a spare bedroom in my house that I use as a shrine to Wonder Woman. Let he who is without a year's supply of comic book bags cast the first stone. And, the important thing is, while many critics say that comics celebrate violence, the geeks that read the books are a generally peaceful lot. So, let the rabid football fans revel in the violence of their game, let the Nascar fans watch more mind numbing racing and crashes, let the video game players continue to blow each other up. We geeks will continue to quietly read our comics and enjoy our worlds of larger than life men and women trying to make the universe a better place. And when the apocalypse comes, we geeks will all retire to a bomb shelter with a lifetime supply of Doritos to live on, and some X-men sleeping bags that we got off of eBay and hoarded for just such an emergency. We'll pool our comic book collections into a vast library so that we'll all have years of reading entertainment, as we continue to debate whether Superman could beat Thor, or whether Wonder Woman was hotter than She-Hulk.
I'm cool. I've come to accept myself and my family of choice. I'm ready to stand up in front of the world and declare myself. My name is Mike, and I'm a geek.