Return of the Fanboy

As a kid, I loved comic books. Every month, I spent my entire allowance on titles such as The New Teen Titans, X-Men, and The Huntress (who is, of course, Batman’s daughter in a parallel universe – I kid you not).

My parents discouraged this habit and counseled me on financial responsibility. But secretly, I think they were happy about it. After all, I showed no interest in sports or trucks or toy soldiers – my obsession with comics and superheroes was so stereotypically boyish that it must have provided them with some small degree of comfort.

And they’re not the only ones. A decade ago, a friend invited me to dinner with her new husband. When I arrived, she was clearly nervous, but hopeful that these two very different men in her lives would find something, anything to talk about for an hour or two. She needn’t have worried. The first X-Men film had just been released, and we were both dying to see it. We spent the entirety of the meal discussing our favorite characters and storylines, and went straight from the restaurant to the theatre, where we revisited the sense of wonder we had known as children. My friend sat between us, relieved yet befuddled at being surrounded by two such incredible geeks. I didn’t much notice; when I wasn’t lost in nostalgic reverie, I was concentrating on Hugh Jackman’s chest hair.

Looking back, it’s hard to say why characters like Superman, Spider-Man, and Green Lantern were so exciting to me as a child. It’s too easy to suggest that I loved them simply because I could see every bicep and deltoid bulging beneath their skintight outfits (though I have to admit that I can still remember the day I discovered that Peter Parker slept in the nude on page 17).

Perhaps it was their altruism. No, really – I remember carrying on long debates in my head about what differentiated super-heroes from super-villains, and why anyone blessed with unique gifts such as flight, x-ray vision, or an invisible plane would use them so selflessly. At the end of the day, what attracted me to my masked crusaders for truth and justice might have been their innate sense of decency. Because at their core, these were good, good people … who just happened to have all those biceps and deltoids.

And yet, I know there’s something else that fascinated me about these muscle-bound do-gooders. There were similarities that extended beyond self-sacrifice and a lovely silhouette. Obviously, most were blessed with superpowers that mere mortals do not enjoy (I wasn’t one of those comic fans who liked Batman best because he had no superpowers; in fact, I thought it showed a real lack of imagination on his part). Also, most had not asked for these abilities, usually attained either by freak accident or alien birth. Finally, most of my heroes employed the use of a secret identity, in an attempt to obtain a halfway normal life, as if such a thing were possible. And I wonder: could it be that my sexually repressed 11-year old self was subconsciously seeing parallels between my closeted existence and theirs?

Whatever the reason, I loved them.  Unlike my fellow fanboys, I had a special affinity for female superheroes, like Supergirl, Batgirl, and Spider-Woman (at the time, I convinced myself that this attraction was evidence of heterosexuality, but now I think it was just another form of diva worship), but like most of them, I didn't continue to buy comics once I reached high school.  Comics provided an escape that was socially acceptable for someone in junior high, but not something I could even pretend was "cool" once I entered the ninth grade.  Just before high school began, I sold my entire stash of comic books for about a hundred dollars.  It seemed like a lot of money at the time, but it was probably a fraction of what those books were worth.  That was almost thirty years ago.

Two years ago, I met a charming fellow I'll call Shorebird, who would later become my boyfriend and then my live-in boyfriend.  Shorebird is a fantastic guy, with a variety of interests.  Among other things, he enjoys "So You Think You Can Dance," The New York Yankees, and ... Wonder Woman.  Not Wonder Woman comics, per se, but the iconography of Wonder Woman fascinates him.  And since he moved into the house, we've been collecting various Wonder Woman merchandise which we've been displaying in the kitchen.  Shorebird even went so far as to have an image of Wonder Woman tattooed on his arm.  That's commitment, people.

And I suppose that inviting Wonder Woman back into my life - or at least my home - has opened an old door for me.  Recently, I was on a business trip and looking for something interesting to read, and I came across The Supergirls: Fashion, Feminism, Fantasy, and the History of Comic Book Heroines, a wonderful book by Mike Madrid that recounts the history of women in comic books against the context of the changing role of women in society.  It sounds really academic when I say it that way, but the book itself was funny, provocative, and greatly entertaining.  Like me, Mike always had a special place in his heart for kick-ass superheroines, and I read the entire thing over the course of four airplane trips in two days.

And, as luck would have it, this rekindling of my love of comic books is coinciding with a much-hyped "relaunch" of the entire DC Comics line: 52 series, all starting back at Issue #1.  What's more, these days I can buy a comic book for two bucks via the Apple store on my iPad.  Need you ask if I've made any purchases lately?  Is Superman a space alien?  (For those who live in a cave, the answer is yes.)  Last week, I purchased the first of the relaunched titles, Justice League #1 (no sightings of Wonder Woman yet, but she's on the cover, so I hope to see her next month) and this week, I bought both Batwing #1 (a new colleague of Batman, based in the Congo) and Batgirl #1 (my favorite of the bunch so far, but also the most controversial, for reasons I might explore at a later date).  As the month progresses, I imagine I'll be purchasing Wonder Woman #1 (naturally), Teen Titans #1 (a favorite from my youth), Catwoman #1 (meow), and perhaps even a few others.

It would seem that I'm a fanboy again.

Book Report: "The Help"

About a year ago, a bunch of my friends started talking about a book they had just read.  The book was called The Help.  They told me it was funny, and touching, and a real page-turner.  Then they put a button on the conversation: “You would love it,” they said – with the emphasis on the “you” and not the “love.”

The Help is a book about many things, but mostly it’s a book about race.  It’s the story of black domestic workers in Jackson, Mississippi during the 1960’s, and an ambitious young (white) writer who wants to write a book about them.  It sounded interesting, and the recommendations came from friends whose opinions I trusted.

And yet … I was scared of The Help.  Because just as soon as I started hearing the accolades from my friends, I started reading about the controversies surrounding the book in the press.  If there was a lot to potentially enjoy about this book, there was also plenty to be scared of.

Most of the controversy has to do with the fact that the book is written by a white woman.  Now, there’s no rule – written or unwritten – that says that white people can’t write about race; hell, I’m doing it right now.  The stickiness of this particular situation comes from the fact that Kathryn Stockett, a white author, writes in the first person for over 90% of the book, using three narrators – two of whom are black women.  It’s one thing, Stockett’s critics would say, to write about black women – but quite another to assume that you "get" a black woman’s identity so much as to write from her perspective.  And compounding this was Stockett’s choice to write these chapters in a form of dialect – “Law have mercy” or “I sho nuff gone do it,” and the like.

I decided it was probably best for me to avoid The Help altogether.  I didn’t have strong opinions about the book; after all I hadn’t read it.  When friends would continue to ask, “Have you read The Help?” – I would say no, and when they pressed me, I would tell them why.  When they would counter with arguments of their own, I wouldn’t argue back – again, we were talking about a book they had read but I had not.  And still, I was not moved to pick up the book and read it.

Then … I saw the preview for the upcoming film.

It’s no secret that while I’m a fairly avid reader, I’m a huge movie buff.  The trailer looked funny and touching, and everything my friends told me the book was.  While the book was something I could ignore or put off, I knew I was going to see this movie at some point.  And this presented a problem for me.  If I saw the film version of The Help, I was going to have opinions about The Help, and if I was going to have opinions about The Help, I needed to know exactly what my opinions were based on.  I was going to have to read this book.

And so, I read the book.

I can confidently say that reading The Help nearly destroyed my relationship.  During the three days (yes, only three days) it took me to devour Stockett’s novel, I barely looked up from my Kindle.  Dishes went unwashed, laundry went unlaundered, and all conversation in the house ceased.  “Sssh,” I’d say. “I’m reading.”

The book was everything my friends told me it would be and nothing like I’d hoped it wasn’t.  Well … almost nothing.  While I loved the plot twists, characterizations, wry observations, and overall humanity of the story, I will confess right away that “Law have mercy” never stopped being annoying.  Every time I read Stockett’s dainty Ebonics, I wondered – what would have been missed if she had instead written “Lord have mercy,” or “sure enough” instead of “sho nuff”?  I’m fairly sure that I would have been able to detect three distinct voices even so.  I don’t have much else to say on this topic, other than I really wish that Stockett had made a different choice.

And, as annoyed as I was, I wasn’t so annoyed that I didn’t devour the book over the course of three evenings, much to Shorebird’s dismay.  Honestly, I don’t know how well Stockett captured the interior landscape of a black domestic in Jackson, Mississippi during the 1960’s, but I cannot deny that the characters leapt off the page. They reacted to their situations in complex ways that nonetheless made psychological sense.

I think what I was really afraid of was that The Help would join other works of literary or cinematic art, such as Dangerous Minds or The Blind Side, in a category of books, films, and stories that I call the Tale of the Nice White Lady.  The Tale of the Nice White Lady centers on a white woman who was born without the ability to form biases against people who are different from herself.  Unlike you or I (or the inevitable awful, horrible, evil white people who surround her), she knows in her soul that all human beings are equally human, but that some people require saving, and that she’s just the Nice White Lady to do it.  Nice White Ladies in books or movies make white people who read those books and watch those movies feel a whole lot better about themselves, mostly because they’re encouraged to identify with those Nice White Ladies, rather than examining their own privileges and prejudices.  White people who enjoy the Tale of the Nice White Lady leave the theatre (or put down the book) feeling good about themselves, but not necessarily motivated to do anything to make a difference in the world.  Nice White Ladies piss me off.

Skeeter, one of the narrators of The Help, is indeed a nice, white girl.  But unlike the Nice White Ladies described above, she’s not immune to having some blind spots around race and her own privileged position in society.  Stockett doesn’t do much to hide the fact that – at her core – Skeeter is an ambitious young writer – much more interested in publishing her first book than empowering a group of black domestics.  When she asks the maids she knows to tell her their stories so that she can compile them into a controversial book that she hopes will launch her career, she is initially surprised when they refuse.  They live in a world that she doesn’t understand and can't relate to.  When the maids finally agree to tell their stories, they don’t do it because Skeeter has persuaded them; rather, it is presented as an act of personal courage.  Yes, it helps the privileged white girl write her book – but they’re more concerned with, at long last, telling the truth.  And yes, Skeeter risks a little – her standing among her white neighbors in the Junior League – but this is nothing compared to what the black women of the novel are willing to risk.  Stockett knows this, and so do her readers.

This isn’t to say that there aren’t things about Skeeter to admire.  She is the only white woman in the entire story who seems to have ambitions beyond marrying a nice white (rich) boy.  Initially, she feels very sorry for herself, mostly because she’s a woman in a man’s world.  As the story progresses, she learns that she has privileges she had never considered, and that while her oppression based on gender doesn’t make up for her privilege based on skin color, neither does her privilege make up for her oppression.  The two simply co-exist, neither one being cancelled out by the other.  Of course, the black women she aligns herself with have privilege with regard to neither race nor gender – something the reader is free (if not deliberately encouraged) to ponder while reading.

The film version of The Help was released earlier this month.  I haven’t seen it yet, but I’m considering going tonight.  Shorebird is even planning to join me, which is awfully big of him, considering our rocky history with this particular story.

Of course, with the film opening up, many of the controversies that were reported on when the book was initially published are being revisited.  There’s a lot of anger I’m reading about, much of it focused on the Tale of the Nice White Lady, and whether or not this story fits that model.  A lot of other folks are upset by what’s not in this story – both the book and the movie (based on what I’ve read) focus almost exclusively on a cast of female characters, which doesn’t leave room to focus on the constant threat of rape and other forms of sexual assault visited on black domestic workers from the men who employed them.  Others take exception to the notion that the central character of the film (Aibeleen, played the by the extraordinary Viola Davis) feels actual love – real, maternal, all-consuming love – for the white child left in her care. These critics note that this is a white woman’s fantasy – a white woman who wants to believe that her black caregiver loved her heart and soul, with no trace of resentment or frustration.  There’s also a sense of exasperation focused on the lack of black authors and filmmakers who get the kind of exposure that The Help has received.  In truth, there is no lack of black storytellers who wish to tell their stories, but rarely do their efforts top the New York Times Bestseller Lists or get made into Hollywood films with Hollywood budgets.

I can’t really argue with any of these points.  The story Stockett tells is likely flawed, but I truly believe that there’s a lot of artistry at work there as well.  All of these arguments together seem to wonder, “does this story tell the truth?” – which to me, is a flawed question.  There is no single truth. I think the book tells the truth as Kathryn Stockett sees it, and there are other stories, other truths we probably need to hear as well.  That most of us will never hear those stories is a fault that belongs to all of us, and shouldn’t be placed solely at the feet of Kathryn Stockett.

I won’t lie– I’m really excited to see this movie tonight, and also a little nervous.  What if it’s offensive?  What’s worse, what if it should be offensive but I’m too coddled by the film’s insidious message and my own white privilege to realize it?  Am I asking enough from society? Am I asking too much from myself? Can both be true at the same time?

Skin Deep

I have a confession to make.

I'm not proud of it.

I've told a couple of people, but for some reason, it's difficult to put it in writing.  Not that I can't find the words, but y'know ... once things are written down, it's more difficult to deny them.

But there's really no denying it.

(sigh) ... Here goes.

I think Paul Ryan is kind of cute.

Yeah ... that Paul Ryan, the congressman from Wisconsin who has become the darling of the Republican party after writing that infamous budget proposal that basically dismantles Medicare.  That Paul Ryan.

Also, the Paul Ryan who a friend described as "looking vaguely like a Muppet."  My friend meant this as a dig, but I agreed with her - in outcome if not in intent.  He does look sort of like a Muppet ... in the sense that he's, well ... kind of adorable.

I've always had a "thing" for guys with sad eyes.  Paul Ryan is probably the poster boy for sad eyes.  When he frowns, he looks very sad indeed, and even when he smiles he looks like he could use a hug.  My boyfriend has sad eyes.  So does David Duchovny, who was my principal celebrity crush of my youth.

And now I must make it clear - I abhor Paul Ryan's politics.  As I was writing the above paragraph, the more principled voice inside my head was screaming at me, "And when he kicks your Grandma in the gut, what does he look like then? Huh??!!"  If I lived in Wisconsin's 1st district, I would not vote for Paul Ryan; in fact, it's safe to say that I would actively campaign against him (and could conceivably contribute to his next political opponent's campaign, should s/he have even a slim chance of winning).  I know what I believe in, and I have very strong convictions.  I absolutely know where I stand.

But I wonder: what's happening to me when I'm paging through Time Magazine, and stumble upon a full-page image of this guy, vaguely reminiscent of a Muppet, but also somewhat evocative of Superman - and I find myself staring at it.  And staring. And staring just a moment more, willing myself to turn the page, reminding myself of why this guy is the personification of everything that's wrong with the overprivileged frat house that is the modern Republican Party, but unable to deny myself another moment gazing at someone who can't be that bad, c'mon just look at him, isn't he cute??!!

Eventually, I do turn the page, but I continue to berate myself.  If I were a better person, I say, my repugnance of this man's value system would trump the pleasing arrangement of his features and render him downright homely.  But clearly I'm not this paragon of virtue I will myself to be.

And I'm reminded of all the guys I've been attracted to in the past, guys I've developed actual crushes on - only to get to know them (oftentimes by dating them) and discovering that their sad eyes, great teeth, and square jaws did not translate into the gentle-hearted, strong-but-silent, full-of-integrity personalities that I had assumed they would be.  And I think about all of the wonderful people I'll probably never get to know because upon first glance, they look sort of ... mean.  Or stuck-up.  And I wonder where I (we?) evolved this tendency of assigning personality characteristics to people based on facial features and body type and how we might possibly learn to evolve our way out of it.  And like most things that lead me down these winding roads inside my head, I'm left with more questions than answers.

But I do know this: Paul Ryan is dangerous.  Even if he is kind of dreamy to look at.

Happy Eggs and Bunnies Day

It's Easter.  For many, it's the most important day of their faith calendar.  For others, it's the first time they'll go to church all year.  For folks like me, it's just another Sunday.

I glided from twice-a-year Catholic into agnosticism back in 2006 or 2007, and became a full-on atheist a year or so later.  (Funny, as agnostics and atheists by definition don't organize, there aren't rituals to welcome you into the non-faith community, so my dates are a little fuzzy).

It's been an interesting journey, and more or less a happy one.  Which is why it's always such a surprise when people put on the long face after hearing of my new secular outlook.  Once, a very well-meaning acquaintance said to me with quivering voice, "I just think it's so sad that you lost your faith."

It took everything I had to not respond with, "I didn't lose it.  I know just where I put it.  But thanks for your concern."

I used to say that I wasn't one of those angry atheists; that I don't care what anyone else believes so long as they keep their religion out of my laws and don't try to coerce me to follow their far-fetched religious notions as my only legal option.  Y'know, dumb things like you can't buy alcohol on Sunday, or two gay people can't get married.  That kind of stuff, that has no real justification other than the Biblical - in a society that is increasingly diverse, religiously, wherein not everyone follows the Bible as the best guide to a moral life.

Then I met Shorebird (not his real name), my, um -- boyfriend?  I guess that's the right word.  We share a house and a bed, but we haven't applied for a marriage license, even though we live in one of the relatively few places in America where the document would be legally binding.  "Domestic partner" seems a little sterile - but that's another topic for another day.

Anyway, when I first went out with Shorebird, his Facebook profile said, "Christian."  And I thought, "well ... this could be a problem.  Not with me, I mean ... I'm one of those open-minded atheists, but he might not appreciate where I'm coming from, and -- oh hell, just go out with him and see what happens.  He is awfully cute."

And on the third date or so, I broached the topic of religion.  And to my relief, he wasn't as stolid a Christian as I might have first imagined.  In fact, he was struggling with the idea of faith quite a bit.  And by "struggling," he was beginning to wonder if it all wasn't just a load of Bronze Age hogwash.  I innocently suggested he listen to a brilliant work by Saturday Night Live alum Julia Sweeney called "Letting Go of God."  It had helped me come to terms with being a big, bad, atheist - and if it didn't have the same effect on him, it might give him some things to think about - or a quick chuckle.

Fast forward six months or so, and Shorebird has embraced atheism full on.  (Where's my toaster oven?  Just sayin'.)

But he didn't stop at Julia Sweeney.  He now reads Sam Harris, Dan Barker, and his personal favorite, Christopher Hitchens, with relish.  And his brand of atheism is just a shade angrier than mine.  Once, I thought it would be fun to watch a documentary called "Jesus Camp."  I had seen the film in theatres before, and it had given me a good laugh.  So I got my hands on the DVD, and to my mild disappointment, Shorebird didn't think it was funny.  He later described it as "watching child abuse for two hours."  Turns out that his upbringing (as a Pentecostal, where folks spake in tongues with alarming frequency) was a little more intense than my Catholic upbringing (all of that eating the Lord's flesh notwithstanding), and he had been left with considerably more scars.  And he's given me a lot to think about.

I still don't feel a lot of anger toward religious people; rather than shake my fist, I'm much more inclined to just shake my head.  But I'm inching toward that anger, especially when I see innocents (and that includes most kids, and certainly the gay ones) being put through the religious ringer.  You might think that gay kids committing suicide was something terrible that happened last summer, when a new story about a gay suicide hit the news wire every other day.  The truth is that gay kids have been killing themselves at a fairly steady rate for years, a rate that continues today, even though that story in 2011 no longer seems new.

So all this is to say, I'm ambivalent.  Which isn't saying much, I realize.  But it's an ambivalence that is especially present for me today, the most important day of my former faith calendar.  But I'm not anti-Easter, not at all.  For instance, I don't really have anything against bunnies and eggs, mostly because some of them are made out of chocolate and to the best of my knowledge, ancient pagan fertility rites never made people feel bad about their sexuality - just the opposite, I would imagine.

Happy Eggs and Bunnies Day, everyone.