Uncanny heroes

Last week I was talking to a newfound friend and at one rather dreary point of the conversation (perhaps because I had surprisingly run out of interesting things to say, which isn’t very often, trust me) I asked him if he was into comic books as well. I had not yet read the latest issues released this month (or last month!) so I thought of asking him, just in case he knew what had happened to my favorite team of outlaw mutants, the Uncanny X-Men. He did not. Apparently, like many people I know who used to like them too back in the day, he thought the story of these comic book heroes had become increasingly complicated over the years, and he had lost whatever little interest he had in them then and the complex imaginary universe they now moved in. I might have even freaked him out a bit asking such a silly question. And so the subject died a sad, quiet, natural death and the topic was quickly changed, like an old pen unceremoniously replaced with a new one the moment it runs out of ink and becomes useless.

Later, when all other more important matters had been thought of and worried about, and my mind had loosened up enough to entertain the usual throng of trivial musings that regularly come to visit, the little incident had me thinking about why I continue to read and obsessively collect comic books (among other things) to this day. It’s a very geeky hobby, really. I don’t know. There has always been something uncanny about the X-Men that greatly appealed to me, even as a neurotic little child. Ever since the animated cartoon series premiered on weekend primetime TV back in the 90’s, I have tried my best to follow their adventures, fighting to protect a world that hates and fears them. But whereas all my classmates and childhood friends (who, at that time, became my playmates as we each pretended to be one of the superheroes) had now all but forgotten about them, I still pretty much live in the comic book world we all used to play in. Reading the comic books is, like sleeping with the blanket over my head, one of the early childhood habits I have had little success growing out of, an addiction I am yet to fully overcome.

When I was younger, it was nothing more than just an entertaining pastime, like all the others children often find themselves so preoccupied with. The images were vivid, bright and colorful, a source of both admiration and inspiration for my young artistic inclinations. It was in comic books that I saw things I could never see in real life, strange, almost mythical creatures and monsters, villains corrupted by the darkness of greed and hunger for supremacy, and of course, extraordinary people in carnivalesque costumes using their unique abilities and powers to save the world from all evil. Every child enjoys that kind of visual stimulation. I was amazed at all the wonderful things I saw on the pages of the comic books. There were all these interesting characters, people who were different from the rest yet somehow the same as everyone else. There was this bald paraplegic who could read minds, a man who could fire blasts from his eyes, a man with angel wings, a woman who could move objects around with her mind, a man who was all blue and furry but was very smart, a man with claws whose wounds healed quicker than anyone else’s, a woman who could control the weather, a girl who could walk through walls, and so many others. They each possessed a power that set them far apart from the rest of humanity, abilities they either regarded as gifts or curses, talents they either used for good or for evil.

But there was always something different about the X -Men. They weren’t just normal superheroes who saved the world every single day and were worshipped and adored by the people they protected, paraded down the city streets on flowery floats and showered with colorful confetti with people screaming and clapping as they went by. Despite constantly fighting to defend the world from evil, they remained outcasts, outlaws who were feared and loathed because they were different, heroes who remained unsung and unrecognized because some of them looked more like villains. They hid behind underground headquarters, codenames and masks to keep their identities and lives secret, safe from the knowledge of those who were disgusted by their genetic “disease” and those who found it hard to accept that they were of good use to society despite their deviations.

As time passed the comic books began to appeal not only to my childish imagination and hungry mind, but started becoming more and more intellectually meaningful to me as well. I started realizing they not only entertained me and helped me pass idle time, but also left me many lessons about life and how we should live it. Each one of us, in our own odd way, is an outcast, a misfit who constantly struggles to belong. I’m sure at one point in our lives or another we have all known what it felt like to be treated unfairly simply because we were different. Just because you are fat, or poor, or ugly, or uneducated, or black, or blind, or gay, or hunchbacked, the way the world treats you changes. It pains me that the first reaction of most people (who themselves are far from perfect) is to shun and reject something they don’t understand rather than seeking, at least trying, to understand it. They are quick to judge and condemn those who are foreign, those who are unusual, those who are different, those who are unlike them. Many of us often forget that there is something about each one of us, little idiosyncrasies, which certainly set us apart from the rest and makes us different in one way or another. The comic books that I read constantly remind me of the value of unquestioning respect, love, kindness, understanding, and acceptance.

We often choose to separate ourselves from each other for a variety of rather ridiculous reasons, reasons which to me, shouldn’t even be there to be considered in the first place. Religion, sex, race, physical appearance, and all other discriminatory labels we have successfully managed to create for ourselves have all become excuses for forgetting fairness and equality and throwing these values out the door. We all seem to struggle to fit in that we forget we have all that it takes it stand out. Rather than molding ourselves to become our own unique creation, we instead mold ourselves into becoming what everyone else already is. And then those who are unfortunately unable to fit in, despite their hope to the contrary, are left outside the circle, abandoned, scorned, feared, hated, ridiculed, humiliated, and sometimes even stoned to death, fed to the lions and burned at the stakes. Well, it’s been a while since I last heard anyone being stoned to death, fed to the lions or burned at the stakes, but yes, it does happen every now and then.

I don’t think God, in His wisdom and unconditional love, would even judge us the way we do ourselves. It seems to me we are the ones who condemn each other as sinners and criminals, forgetting that at the very end of it all only God can truly tell us who has been good and who has been bad, who deserves His love and who does not. I even think that to Him we all deserve His love. Even those of us who choose to believe otherwise. I pray, for all our sakes, that I’m correct.

These comic books remind me that there is wealth in diversity, that there is nothing wrong with being different. They remind me that in this life, in this world, there should not be a place for hate and prejudice, only compassion and empathy. When you come to think about it, we all have what it takes to be our own heroes. Uncanny, but heroes nonetheless. So go on, read a comic book or two. You might learn a few good lessons, too. And maybe the world will be a better place to live in