What's Next

I've been thinking about what's next, while my students spend the next hour and 25 minutes doing the work they were supposed to do on Tuesday.

I keep coming back to cartoons/animation. When I was a little boy, cartoons are what got me

hooked into reading. When the Batman live-action TV show went off the air in March 1968, there was a cartoon series that fall for the 1968-69 TV season that, when combined with the 1966 New Adventures of Superman cartoons, formed the Batman/Superman hour. That show inspired me to seek out Batman, Superman (and Superboy!) comics to read.

That wasn't the only show on Saturday Morning TV that year. There was also a pile of Alex Toth-designed shows, including The Herculoids, Shazzan, Jonny Quest (some of the characters anyway), Moby Dick and the Mighty Mightor, as well. And that's just what was on CBS! NBC had Birdman, The Galaxy Trio, Underdog, and the Super 6. ABC showed Spider-Man and The Fantastic Four. There were literally too many adventure shows to choose from! On Sunday was Aquaman's show, which also featured Justice League and Teen Titans cartoons. Is it any wonder I turned out to love superheroes? I was about to turn four, and they were EVERYWHERE.

Having shared these experiences with my dad, who worked third shift at the time and got home in the morning just in time to start the cartoon madness, until he pooped out and went to bed, I always remember watching superhero cartoons as a happy time.

This trend continued even when I wasn't allowed to watch cartoons very much anymore, during the dark times. Starting in 1969, superheroes were neutered, and we got fluff like Scooby-Doo. I was never even really a fan of Super Friends. The action was, how shall I say it, muted for new broadcast standards and practices. One show I did like in the 70s was the Star Trek cartoon. And Bill Krause's Challenger design that I recently commissioned has made me really think of the aesthetics of animation again. Cel-shaded main figures in front of fully painted backgrounds is a staple of animation, and that look is what I really enjoy about Challenger. I can find all kinds of paintings of space phenomena, and just drop one of my transparent PNG files of Challenger in front of it. It never fails to spur my imagination. This still happens in today's animation, but you may never have noticed it, because it's been going on for almost a century.

Now that I've concluded my Champions RPG campaign, I'm ready to work on something without a deadline, and with no intention of publishing or making money. I just want to do something for me. And I think I'm going to spend some time converting some of my many characters to animation style art, and to start world building what I think would be a fun world to play in. World building has always been one of my favorite things to do. Some of my favorite books that I've been reading lately have been game world sourcebooks from Mutants & Masterminds, which aren't limited to just superhero stuff, but even deal with the infrastructure of a city setting, including what music the various radio stations play. It's immersive, and allows for that zen-deep state of thought that lets you imagine what might be, and that appeals to me. I guess we'll see what happens.

The Wild Heart

 

It was January 1984. I was in my dad’s apartment in Cadillac, Michigan, on a wintry night home from college for the break. Stevie Nicks’ The Wild Heart played on his little boom box on cassette. It was a Christmas present from my aunt, who knew that Stevie Nicks was my favorite member of my favorite band, Fleetwood Mac. I must have spent a thousand hours listening to Rumours on headphones while I read comics at my grandma and grandpa’s house. But now I was a newly minted 19-year-old and I was waiting for Ron Radaweic to come and pick me up so we could go to the bar. We could do that back in those days in Michigan. You just had to be 18 and if you knew the right people, you could drink. Not legally, of course, but Northern Michigan was never really known for its stringent law enforcement. I was not a drinker, either. But the bar was where you would find other people my age. So, there I stood, in the dark, wearing my Western Michigan University hoodie and Levi’s 501 jeans with the button fly, ready to mingle and serve as wingman for Ron. We had worked together the previous summer at 4Winns Boats, doing boat upholstery, and he was one of the first friends I had made post-high school. His parents owned the very first video rental store in Northern Michigan, and we had spent many an evening picking out films that neither of us had seen in the theater. He was back from Michigan Tech, way up in the U.P. in Houghton, and we were going to live it up for a night back.

My dad was out for the night, gone off to wherever ancient 40-year-olds go, and If Anyone Falls came on. I was just thinking about Stevie’s first solo album, Bella Donna, came out in 1981 when I was back in high school, and we listened to that a thousand times on bus rides to and from games, as well as in the locker room…on eight-track. Yeah, that’s right. Eight-track. I had bought a portable eight-track player for a dollar at a garage sale that supposedly didn’t work. I cleaned off the battery of corrosion with Coke, and put fresh batteries in it, and voila! We had music with us on the road. But high school days were now seemingly long behind, and I was a college man. So much of my identity in high school had been wrapped up in the orange and black school colors and the Bulldog mascot and the town, Mesick. I could walk anywhere in two counties and be recognized by name by the time I was a senior. My grandma would always look at me in amazement and ask how they knew me. High school sports were big in Northern Michigan, and I had played every one that I could: Football in the fall, basketball in the winter, and baseball in the spring. I was good enough to get my picture in the papers and cover my varsity letter with medals, but not good enough to get a college scholarship for it. But that was okay, because I had just enough brain to take care of that; or so I thought. While I had finished as class salutatorian in high school, I had just gotten my ass handed to me in my first semester of college. I thought about that as Gate and Garden began.

When I got to college in August, I discovered that my dorm, Eldridge Hall, in Goldsworth Valley III, had more people living in it than lived in my entire hometown. It was culture shock, to be sure, but not as much perhaps as the fact that I was still recognized by the guys on the floor of my dorm. Just down the hall from me was the cousin of the baseball player whose line drive I had caught to save the Class D state championship game in 1982. “Circus Catch,” they called me. The only thing I wanted to do when I went away to college was to forget all about high school, and yet there I was, infamous for it. I tried to focus on my studies, but I’ll be honest, some of my high school classes had not prepared me well. Chemistry was killing me, even though I’d gotten an A in it in high school. The professor was literally a rocket scientist. He had worked for NASA and he wanted you to know it. I struggled with it, but my roommate and suitemates sat in the back didn’t. They used their brand-new TI-55 calculators to share answers. With three 8-digit memories, they encoded the answers to the first 24 of 25 questions on the test. 1 was A, 2 for B, 3 for C, 4 for D, and 5 for “none of these.” I refused to participate in their academic dishonesty, and I paid the price for it. By the end of the semester, I was in desperate trouble. I needed a B on the final just to pull out a C in the class. I studied 14 straight hours for the final, trying to figure out what I’d been missing, and pulled a BA on the final, to get a CB in the class. Enchanted played next.

Why was I even waiting for a ride? Because I had sold my car midway through the first semester. I was very popular with my roommate and suitemates because I was the only one of us four who had a car. Most freshmen couldn’t have one, but I got permission. The 1974 Ford Pinto station wagon ferried those boys back and forth whenever they could persuade me. But one night, as we were piling into the car, I noticed that the “Bulldog Country” bumper sticker on the rear bumper of my car had been torn off. I didn’t like that, but it was no big deal. It was only a bumper sticker, and I was trying to separate myself from my hometown anyway, right? Well, we got about five blocks down the road, and there was a bad vibration, and it got worse. I pulled over and found that all the lug nuts were loose on the driver’s side front wheel. I jacked the car up and tightened them. What a weird coincidence. Then a horrible thought crossed my mind, and I checked the rest of the wheels. All the lug nuts had been loosened on every wheel! I was shaking. Naturally, I thought that the athletic rivals who called me “Circus Catch” had done it, but I had no proof. I drove the guys to their destination and went back to the dorm. I parked the car and never drove it again. I called my dad and told him to come and get it and to sell it for me. Whoever had done it knew it was my car, and I’d never feel safe in it again. Nightbird ended just as the snow started getting heavy.

I popped the tape and flipped it over to play the title song, The Wild Heart, and reflected that the first semester hadn’t all gone badly. I had rediscovered my love of comic books. I had given them all up when I was a freshman in high school because the only place to buy them in my little hometown was a local grocery store, where the girl that I liked, a junior, was a cashier. For me to buy them, I’d have to pay her the money and endure the judgment. It was easier to give them up. But at Western Michigan, I was shocked to discover that there were girls who liked comics too. One of them was in the first class I took, Honors English 105, Writing and Science. She lived in my dorm on the 6^th floor (I was on the 5^th) and she told me that there was a comic book store in town. I laughed. “What do you mean, a comic book store?” She told me that there was a store that sold nothing but comic books. I couldn’t believe it. What a wild fantasy world! But on my 19^th birthday, I visited it for the first time. I was writing a paper for the English class and I interviewed the owners. They had new comics, as well as old back issues. My mother had sent me $10 for my birthday, and I spent it all that day. I bought old issues of Batman from the 1960s for a quarter each, as well as the Limited Collector’s Edition featuring the Superman-Flash races, which I had never seen before. I wrote a paper like I had never written before, so excited was I by the discovery and got the highest grade in the class. I vowed to make a trip to that store regularly from that point on. And I took more of an interest in the young lady who had told me about it.

As I Will Run to You, Stevie’s duet with Tom Petty began, I took a good look around the apartment. There was not a hint of my existence except for my cheap plastic suitcase (black with red piping like the Batmobile) on the floor over by the futon I was sleeping on in the living room. I thought back to just a few weeks previous, on that same 19^th birthday, when my dad had failed to call me. I was crushed that night, but the more I looked around, the more I thought to myself that it was no coincidence. Out of sight, out of mind. My dad felt that his obligations to me were over once I had graduated from high school. The only thing he missed about me being around the one-bedroom apartment was half the rent and utilities he made me pay to stay there in June, July, and part of August. I didn’t leave so much as a coffee cup in the kitchen when I left. He had me take everything with me. That’s when it finally hit me. I truly was an adult, standing on my own two feet.

Nothing Ever Changes echoed around the empty apartment, as Ron pulled up in his Honda. The evening was uneventful, for me at least, as we tried to talk to people in the bar. It was packed, of course, with all the college kids back for break, and after about an hour, we got ourselves invited to a party at someone’s house. Again, not my scene. I always felt uncomfortable in crowds of people I didn’t know, and that remains true to this day. I patiently waited for Ron to finish his rounds and asked if he could drop me back at the apartment. He agreed, but then went back out into the night to seek his fortune elsewhere, leaving me alone with my thoughts again. My dad called a little after midnight, and told me about possibly getting back together with his third wife, Peggy. Wonderful, I thought. At least he’ll be happy without her kids around. When I lived in her house, I was the youngest of the five step siblings, and if I was gone, they all would be too. Sable on Blond? Gross. I couldn’t wait to go back to school so I could miss that reunion.

The next morning, I went to breakfast with my grandma at the Big Boy down at the corner of Pearl and Mitchell Street. Grandma McClain lived in another one-bedroom apartment in an adjacent building to my dad’s. He still wasn’t home yet from his excursion, so I entertained her instead. I had my usual Mexican Fiesta omelet, and she had scrambled eggs and hashbrowns. My grandma and I had always had a special connection from the time I was born. I was the only grandchild for the first six years of my life, so naturally, she spoiled me a bit. She was only around my brother for about a year of his life before my parents split. I was just about to start seventh grade when my dad and I moved to Mesick to a mobile home across a field from hers and Grandpa McClain’s house. And it was she who had provided the positive influence and unconditional love that had helped to heal the deep traumatic scars that had been inflicted on me in the five years under my stepfather’s roofs. She was focused now on her newest grandson, my aunt’s son Jeremy, who had just been born the year before. I listened to her tell all the stories about him, and I was happy that she had somewhere to focus her energies now that I wasn’t around. I didn’t feel replaced, per se, but I did feel relief that she wouldn’t feel alone with my dad off chasing after another potential wife. After breakfast, we went down to the bookstore that I had been frequenting since childhood and had found so many of my precious treasures that I still value to this day. On this visit, I found a copy of the boxed set of Champions, a superhero roleplaying game that I had had an opportunity to play that fall, that opened my eyes to a whole new world. I also found a copy of Thor #337, by Walt Simonson, that many of my new comic-loving friends had raved about. With the recent trip to the comic book store in Kalamazoo and the idea that I didn’t have to be bound to the restrictions I had placed on myself in high school for the sake of impressing girls, I returned in January to a whole new life, and a whole new me. I hung up my Mesick Bulldogs varsity jacket for the last time and started wearing my late grandpa’s parka, which I had inherited for the really cold days.

The lyrics from Beauty and the Beast rang true in my mind. I had changed.

Ladybug

 

My dad had a dog named Ladybug. She was a year-old basset hound/dachshund mix. She was long, short-legged, with big floppy ears, and light brown fur all over. From the very beginning of my life with my dad and his wife’s family, I had an attachment to Ladybug. We did not have indoor pets in my mom’s household. Mom had tried to keep a pet, but Steve had always put his foot down. We had a German Shepherd named Dudley when I was in third grade, but he had a house way out in the back yard and never came inside. I fed him twice a day but was not allowed to let him loose or even to play with him. When we moved from that house, Dudley disappeared. I don’t even want to think about what might have happened to him.

But from the time I moved in, Ladybug and I were inseparable. She took to me immediately, since my dad’s affections were divided. She slept with me in my room, burrowing under my covers and sleeping at my feet each night. The problem was that Ladybug was a chewer. She chewed my dad’s moccasin slippers. She chewed a pair of my shoes. And then one day, she made a big mistake. She chewed up the couch. I don’t mean that she chewed one of the wooden legs of the brand-new couch. I mean that we came home and all four legs had been chewed. I mean that there was stuffing everywhere and that the upholstery was destroyed. For such a little dog, she did an awful lot of damage. Peggy, my dad’s wife, was done. She said that the dog had to go. Is it difficult to predict my reaction to this proclamation? I didn’t think so. I broke down completely, sobbing, begging them not to get rid of Ladybug. I had just made an attachment to another living thing after five years of trauma. After about an hour of tearful pleading, a deal was struck.

Ladybug would become MY dog. But as my dog, I would be responsible for everything to do with her. I would feed her, water her, take her outside, clean up any accidents, and, work to pay for any future damage that she would do in the house. To no one’s surprise, I agreed. But then, I would have agreed to give up my firstborn child to save that dog.

With deep snow outside, I spent a lot of time in my black Arctic Cat snow suit and Detroit Lions stocking cap, digging tunnels and throwing snowballs at Ladybug. She would try to catch them with her mouth. She loved being outside with me. And when it was time to come back in, there was no better companion with whom to sit by the fireplace and warm up. She was the Queen of Belly Rubs.

Ladybug’s favorite toy was a tube sock. Any tube sock. I would take my old socks, tie a knot in the middle, and turn her loose on it. She was shake them back and forth, toss them up in the air, pounce on them, and rinse and repeat. But her favorite game was tug of war. She would bring you the sock, drop it, and wait for you to reach for it. And once you got ahold of it, it was game on. She’d grab the other end, and pull for all she was worth. I think if you tied one end of one of her socks to a car, she could have pulled it uphill. She would make this adorable growling sound, so very vicious, but the moment either you or she let go of the sock, she’d wag her tail and be your best pal.

We had another dog in the house as well as Ladybug. Her name was Suzy, and she was Peggy’s youngest boy David’s dog. She was a beagle mix, and she and Ladybug would often go on adventures together in the woods next to the house. They loved to chase rabbits, which were plentiful. This adventurism, however, came at a cost one time. That cost came in the form of a porcupine. When Ladybug came back to the house, her mouth was just filled with blood. Suzy had a couple of quills, but with Ladybug, we counted, once we got her mouth open, over 200 quills. She was in agony. My dad grimly brought me a pair of needle nose pliers and told me to get to work. He showed me how to remove them by taking Suzy’s few out, and then I got to work. I had to pull the quills out individually, each time evoking a cry of pain, and I spent an hour removing them, hoping that Ladybug wouldn’t bleed to death. We cleaned her mouth as best we could, and I slept out in the living room with her wrapped up in a towel. Incredibly, by morning she was her old self again, like nothing ever happened. I couldn’t believe it.

That next night, with moonlight still illuminating the Fantastic Four on my Marvel calendar on the wall, I wasn’t just grateful for my own safety, but also for that of the snoring dog under the covers at my feet.

 Justice League of America #141: No World Escapes the Manhunters!

I didn’t expect the next issue of Justice League of America to be on the stands the very next Sunday after church, and yet there it was.

But first, I had
to get through my first week of school in my new town of Tustin Michigan. Tustin Elementary was a small school. There was only one class for each grade, so I got to know all the sixth graders in Tustin. Mr. Hunter was the teacher, and he was cool. He had a big, bushy mustache and a way of speaking I had never heard before. He actually said “toe-mah-toe,” once when he spoke. I thought that only happened in the song.

 

This sixth grade experience in Tustin was entirely different from my previous one in Engadine Michigan. One drastic difference in attending Tustin Elementary as a result of living with my dad was the fact that I could wear blue jeans to school. When I lived with my mother, that was not allowed. When I asked if I could wear tennis shoes, I thought I was really pushing boundaries because I wasn’t previously allowed to do that either. I always had to wear dress shoes to school, which made recesses challenging at times. And God help me if I came home with a grass stain on my slacks. This was a whole new ballgame. I thought I might actually fit in right off the bat.


Up in the Upper Peninsula, kids were shy about the opposite sex. Not so, here in Tustin. Russell was paired off with Monica, and Ron had already laid claim to the prettiest girl in class, Janet. Oh, yeah, instant crush. I spent way too much time staring at her in class. Janet was best friends with Robin, who was also really pretty. As far as I knew, Robin didn’t have a boyfriend, so I felt good about that. I know, I know. Sixth grade?

I had always made friends pretty easily in elementary school. I didn’t have a choice. By the time I was 12, I had gone to nine different ones. And being a baseball kid, I would always find the boys to play baseball, pickle, or the more popular 500 with at recess. The problem was that it was January, and there wasn’t going to be any baseball to break the ice. They were doing indoor track events. A boy named Brent was a hero to all of us. He had been doing the shot put and someone threw him the shot. He caught it in one hand, but the weight of the shot pulled his hand to the ground and his finger nearly exploded under the weight. One day soon after, he pulled a bunch of us around to show us the stitches from the surgeons trying to put his finger back together again. The toughest of us stayed in. Some of us almost puked. His finger looked like it belonged on Frankenstein’s monster. I was one of the ones who stayed in, and that gave me the “in” I needed to be accepted.

The drawback of starting in a new school midyear was made plain to me that first week. The entire class were doing country reports, a long-term project. I had arrived after all the countries had been assigned. I would have hoped for Japan, since my uncle lived there. That would have been nice. But no, I was given Saudi Arabia, literally choice #25, a country no one else wanted. It was going to be a long week.

After church on Sunday, I was shocked to see that Justice League of America #141 was on the spinner rack. I honestly had never seen a cliffhanger resolved in a comic book series before. I would get the first part when visiting my grandma’s house, but by the time we returned, it would be three or four months (and issues) later. The first time I got the second part of a story, it had only been a week! Green Lantern was on trial for destroying that moon in #140, but Batman (of course) figured out that the moon had not really been destroyed, and that the Manhunters were engaged in a conspiracy to discredit the Green Lantern Corps as well as their former masters, the Guardians of the Universe. Such satisfaction had never been achieved by this young reader. What a perfect ending. And yet, at the very end, the League hadn’t been able to contact The Atom, Aquaman, and The Elongated Man, who hadn’t answered the alert, and in the best tradition of comics fandom, I couldn’t wait to find out where they were!

On our way to visit Grandma and Grandpa later that day, I read both of the issues back-to-back all over again to get the complete scope of the story all in one sitting. I loved it. I still do.

 
Justice League of America #140: No Man Escapes the Manhunters!

Living with my dad was very different from the very beginning. We lived near the small Northern Michigan town of Tustin, a town built around one street. Not a lot of business there, to say the least. A hardware store, a general store, a couple of churches, and not much else. On the first Sunday after moving in, we went to church. My dad’s wife, Peggy, had four children from a previous marriage, all older than I was. Debbie was 17, Barb was 16, Johnny was 14, and David was 13. So, we all sat quietly for the service, which was really no different than any other service I’d been to with my mother and stepfather, who attended a Baptist church in the upper peninsula.

After the service was over, we walked over to the general store. Peggy started handing out quarters to everyone; two quarters each. “What’s this for?” I asked, dumbfounded. “Behaving in church,” she said. I almost laughed out loud. I had just gotten paid fifty cents to do what I normally would have done to avoid getting beaten. I thanked her profusely and went in search of something to buy with my new ill-gotten wealth. The girls were buying cigarettes, which made me wonder a bit. The boys were buying bottles of pop. I took my dad aside and timidly asked him if I could buy a comic book. He just looked dumbfounded at me and said I could buy whatever I wanted. This had never happened to me in my entire life. I found a spinner rack and calculated the best value for my money.

I bought Justice League of America #140, with a cover price of fifty cents. It was a double-sized issue, and featured all of my favorite superheroes: Batman, Superman, Green Lantern, the Flash, all of them! In the issue, Green Lantern was accused of destroying a populated moon with his power ring, and he admitted his guilt and allowed himself to be taken prisoner by a group called the Manhunters! I had to know more. I bought the comic and after everyone had made their purchases, we all headed home.

Justice League of America #140

I, of course, had to read the comic immediately, and I didn’t wait until we got back to the house. We dropped Johnny and David off at their dad’s trailer, where they lived, and I may have mumbled goodbye, I’m not certain. I was engrossed in the story.

When we did arrive at home, the girls lit up their cigarettes. I was stunned. My stepfather didn’t allow smoking in his home. And I mean, ever. He had even forbidden my mother to smoke. She did it behind his back when he was away, but she did her best to cover her tracks. But right here, two kids were smoking! And that’s not all. They cursed like sailors. I was still not allowed to swear, but then again, I didn’t really want to. I was not only in a safe home, but I was allowed to read (and keep) comic books in it!

After the girls found themselves something to do, my dad had another surprise in store. He and Peggy and I got into the panel van and headed up to Mesick to see my Grandma and Grandpa McClain. It turned out that Dad went to visit them every week! I was so excited, I almost forgot to take my comic book with me so I could read it again.

The trip from Tustin to Mesick was only 35 minutes, but I swear it seemed like an eternity. I passed the time by reading, but I couldn’t wait to see Grandma and Grandpa again. I hadn’t seen them since the past summer. We took off our coats and snow boots (Northern Michigan, remember?) in the familiar mudroom and Grandma met me at the doorway, almost crushing me with a bear hug. Grandpa was there at his spot at the dining room table, and he did crush me with a hug of his own. With hindsight, I now realize that my grandparents suffered perhaps the worst of my parents getting divorced, as they only got to see their only grandchildren twice a year.

This time it was different. I was here to stay. As the grownups sat around the dining room table, Grandma brought out cups of coffee for everyone; everyone but me, that is. I got a tall glass of milk, and I knew what was coming next: An entire Tupperware cake container filled to the top with chocolate chip cookies! It didn’t take long for us to put a big dent in the cookie pile. Grandma made the best cookies. On the other hand, whose grandma didn’t, right? And before too long, the adults were heavy into adult talk, and I asked Grandma if she would pull out my stash. She smiled and nodded, and went to her room, quickly bringing back my box of comic books. This was where I kept the comic books that Jeff and I received every summer and Christmas so that Steve wouldn’t get his hands on them. I was reunited with old friends.

I sat in the living room, in Grandpa’s recliner, reading under his favorite reading lamp. This itself was a treasured luxury. My brother Jeff and I were not allowed to sit on the living room furniture in Mom and Steve’s house. “Animals don’t sit on furniture,” you see. My dad had bought Jeff a padded Mickey Mouse stool a few years before, and I had been jealous as all get out of him for that. I had to sit on the floor. But there I was, in Grandpa’s chair, with the omnipresent bowl of Brach’s candies next to my spot. Starlite mints, butterscotch discs, and those terrible blue things. Ice Blue Mint Coolers, or somesuch. And there were a few anise candies there, in their red wrappers. I love black licorice to this day, but I knew Grandpa liked those best, so I only ate one.

The adults talked until dark, which came fairly early, around 4:30. Then it was time to go. Grandma asked me if I wanted to take my comic books with me. On previous visits, I had always insisted on leaving them, but now, I was suddenly free to have them with me all the time. I laughed at the thought and agreed. I was suddenly laughing a lot, it seemed. I wasn’t used to that. But I would get used to it.

 

The Marvel Comics Memory Album Calendar 1977

This is the 1977 Marvel Memory Album. It’s a calendar that my dad bought me for Christmas in 1976, when I went to live with him once my mother gave me the choice of which parent I wanted to live with when I turned 12 earlier that month. I would much rather detail the memories of the recovery period that followed. After all, this blog is called “Aftermath.” It seems appropriate. Heaven knows that I’ve told the abuse stories for long enough. It’s time to visit my safe space. It’s the place I go in my head when I need respite from the dark recesses of memory. This calendar is an excellent artifact around which to build that narrative.

After the usual Christmas holiday visits to my mother’s family and my stepfather’s family in southern Michigan, we went back home to the upper peninsula to pack all my things for the move to my father’s house. He had told us that he and his new (third) wife Peggy, whom we had met at their wedding the previous summer, lived in a two-story home along a wooded area with a spacious yard that had a fish pond. We had directions and drove up and down the road they supposedly lived on but found no sign of this dream house. After stopping to ask for help, we found the address. It appeared that everything my dad had said was true, except for the house part. He and Peggy and her two oldest children apparently lived in an unfinished basement built into a dirt bank. Near the road was the burned-out husk of a house that had been destroyed a few years before. We went up the driveway, still unsure. There was a sliding glass door facing out over the spacious lawn and pond, sure enough, and I could see my dad inside.

My mom was LIVID. L-I-V-I-D, man. A litany of curses familiar to me only because they were usually reserved for my father spewed from her mouth. We went up to the door, and sure enough, this was the right place. I hugged my dad, and then got out of the way because I knew I would be trailed closely by my mother. I spotted the lit Christmas tree with presents still under it, undoubtedly saved for my brother and me, even though Christmas was a week previous.

My mom barely held her contempt and had some very direct, but hushed words for my father. I felt a chill, because I was afraid that this meant she wouldn’t let me stay with him, and that I’d be in for five more years of beatings…or more. After she was done with him, she took me aside, and asked me if I was sure I wanted to live here in this basement. I knew by now that my decision to live with my dad had hurt her feelings, so I tried to contain myself a little better than I had when she asked me who I wanted to live with. “Yes,” I said. “I’m sure.” There were tears in her eyes and she hugged me, something she NEVER did. I’m not sure if it was because I would rather live in a concrete box than with her, or just because she knew she would hardly see me again beyond visitations in the summer and the holidays as had been the case with my dad. It could have been both.

We unpacked the rest of my stuff, including my bike, which we had tied to the roof. Looking back, I didn’t actually own much then. My brother and I had shared a small bedroom in our mobile home. My brother and sister got to keep most of the toys that I had been given. I was 12 now and was supposed to be beyond all of that. I had gotten a BB gun for Christmas from my mom and stepfather, as well as a Detroit Lions bulletin board. It took two trips to my new room to get everything in. I had my own cinder block partition two doors away from the fireplace. It was good enough for me!

Everyone sat down to let my brother open his Christmas presents because he wasn’t going to be able to stay. That was the first time it really hit me. Jeff and I were going to be separated for the first time since he’d been born. We’d been sharing a room for years, while my younger sister had her own. We had bunk beds with matching sheets and identical NFL bedspreads. I wasn’t even sure I could sleep without him in the room. Suddenly, I had second thoughts about leaving him behind. But no, surely with me living with my dad, Steve wouldn’t dare beat on Jeff the way he had me. I knew from stories that my dad had fought Steve years before and came out on top.

After the presents were given, I said goodbye to my brother, my sister Wendy, and to Steve. I remember looking him in the eye and just feeling victorious, like I had beaten him at his own game simply by outlasting his abuse. When my mom hugged me, I didn’t think she was going to let me go. She whispered to me that if I wanted to come back, to just call her and she would be there that same day. I tried to fight back tears but lost the battle. I told her I loved her and watched her go.

Afterward, I got to open my Christmas presents. Among them was the calendar that started this whole thing. At that time of my life, I wasn’t a big Marvel fan, but that hardly mattered. It was a comic book item, something I had not been allowed to have in my room at my mother’s house. And I hung that calendar proudly over my dresser in my cinder block room with some Scotch tape. The first page was January and featured the Fantastic Four, fighting Skrulls. I had never read a Fantastic Four comic in my life, but I had watched the cartoon with my dad when I was little. I knew who they were, and that was enough. When my dad came in to tuck me in (he had no idea what to do with a 12-year-old who doesn’t need to be tucked in, but give him some credit for trying), he kissed me good night and told me how glad he was that I was there with him. He closed the curtain over the empty space that would someday have a door and turned off the “living room” lights outside my very own room. Moonlight leaked in ever so slightly from the basement window, illuminating the calendar on the wall, and just before I fell asleep, I felt silently grateful for my new situation. I was finally out of danger. I felt warm and protected, from both Skrulls and my stepfather.

Don't Blink!

When we last left our hero, he was planning to go to Disneyland with his family for his 55th birthday, a milestone that meant he was finally going to be eligible to retire and to pursue the creative dreams he had been building on for 10 years. He was going to build a $200 lightsaber and recapture some of the magic he had lost since he was 12 years old and in love with Star Wars.

::blink:: 

What the hell just happened?

Two years passed, that's what just happened. We went to Disneyland! I built that lightsaber! I celebrated my birthday!

A rainy but happy day at the Happiest Place on Earth!

Lightsaber activation at Savi's Workshop!

Birthday dessert at Buca Di Beppo!

I retired and started collecting my pension! I prepared to go out on the road and bring comics and math to the world! I started buying comic book collections so that I could sell at shows that weren't geared toward Artist Alleys and educational comics. I bought a new wardrobe and all the technology necessary to reach my goals, and gave myself until the fall to make a go of it, else I would return to the classroom, earning both my pension and a salary. And then the world was struck with a global pandemic and everything came to a screeching halt. 

The end.

No, literally; that was the end of my dream. There were no more school visits. No more comic book conventions.  Hell, for a long time there was just no school. Everyone hunkered down at home and did virtual instruction wherever possible until the end of the school year. And when we finally did go back to school, there were restrictions placed on spacing and visitors, and there were times when everyone just stayed at home again. And then we went back to hybrid instruction, with half the kids in the building at once. Just to have something I could do to make money, I signed up to be a substitute teacher despite the danger. A week later, school was shut down again for the rest of the calendar year. I worked only sporadically for the better part of a year and a half. The last two months of the 2020-2021 school year, though, I worked almost every day as a substitute. It was great!

I have to tell you, I loved substitute teaching. During the shutdown, I was looking for other creative outlets, and rediscovered my love of tabletop roleplaying games, specifically Champions. And some of my old gaming buddies from the 1980s asked me if I'd be interested in running for them online. I never thought I could maintain a weekly schedule, but I said I would give it a try. And substitute teaching provided me the quiet time needed to maintain a weekly schedule. I felt like I was 22 again, fresh out of college and doing substitute teaching as part of my two part-time jobs. I used to take a bag full of game books and materials with me and work on my Champions stuff while watching whatever movie the teacher left for lesson plans. Maybe it was a little bit of a regression, but I think I earned a little break from full-time work, having done it for 32 years. I think that despite the pandemic, I was the happiest I'd ever been.

But financially, substitute teaching just didn't make a lot of sense. When I was working the tail end of that year, I was actually bringing home more money than I had when I was teaching full-time, between my pension and subbing. But during the summer, there was just nothing coming in. I started selling stuff on Ebay, which turned out to be extremely lucrative, especially when I found a box of 20-year-old Pokemon promo cards in the basement. I paid our mortgage for two months out of that box! But as the new school year approached, I could see that there were 100 teaching openings in my old district, and nine of those were in secondary math. It seemed selfish just to keep working to stay stable while not making any headway in my dream of making Solution Squad and Heroes of  STEAM viable. It just wasn't going to happen, and I'd taken up an extra year beyond what I'd promised; well, that bit was a little out of my control, but still.

So, at the end of July, I applied for and was hired for a position teaching high school geometry. My full salary was restored, and I have rejoined the ranks of the overwhelmed. Well, kind of overwhelmed. No, I'm pretty much whelmed at this point. Unlike my colleagues, I had the privilege of a year and a half not teaching in the pandemic; not really. I wasn't scrambling to make lesson plans with stuff changing two or three times a year. I just showed up and took attendance for the most part, and there's not a whole lot of stress involved there. And I have to confess that retirement was good for me in another way. My philosophy about the things that stressed me out as a full-time teacher before is simple: IDGAF. I know now that I can walk away from this job whenever I want to and still be financially solvent.

After I received a couple of solid paychecks to go along with my pension, I revisited the whole idea of making educational comics. I realize now that I was never going to make money at it. A little bit of market research was revealed to me in an article that showed me that my book was actually selling really well for a graphic novel. And with as little money as that brought in, it was never going to be a moneymaker. It turned out to be kind of a really expensive hobby.

I analyzed my feelings as to why I was still doing it, and I'm pretty well satisfied that I accomplished all my goals. For what it was and who I was, I received far more recognition and validation than I ever expected. I also got to experience the drama behind power struggles among those who crave power in the educational comics space but don't have any real talent, and I bowed out.

I've decided to actually have a life for a while. I'm taking a break from all the troubles and tribulations of making comics. I'm tired of being the boss. I want to binge watch TV shows, read books and old comics, and do the things I've heard so much about for the next little bit, while trying to be a better dad and husband. Whatever I do, there's one thing I can't stop doing, and that's writing.

I'll be writing here in this space for the foreseeable future. No Patreon to collect fees and feel pressure to make money. I don't need to make more money now that I'm back in the classroom. If I want to add photos or illustrations to my work, I can. It's free to read and it's free to ignore. I'll link to these posts on Facebook and Twitter and let the chips fall where they may. I'll be writing about comics, television, gaming, movies, education, all the usual stuff I've written about in the past. Writing is like my meditation. It's how I work things out and sort out my thoughts and feelings. Feel free to watch and laugh at me. I will most likely deserve it.

In Space, No One Can Hear You (Day)Dream

I bought this USS Nostromo cap at Aw Yeah Comics in Muncie yesterday. I've wanted one ever since I saw them advertised in Starlog magazine starting in 1979. It was from the movie, Alien, directed by Ridley Scott. Mind you, I had never seen Alien. It was rated R and I was only 14 years old. We didn't have HBO or even cable for that matter, so it would be quite a while before I would actually see the movie. What I had done, on the other hand, was read the Heavy Metal comics adaptation (my first exposure to Walt Simonson's art) and I had read the novelization by Alan Dean Foster, who seemed to write every movie novelization back in those days. I sold a couple of books, and this was my reward.

Funny thing about growing up poor. While all of your friends are going to concerts and having their own cars, you kind of sit on the sidelines thinking that someday, you'll have your turn. You work just as hard as or even harder than they do, but your money goes toward other things that they don't have to worry about. And then you use your incredible gift of a nearly-free college education (received via scholarships and federal grants) to become...a teacher. Sure teachers make the median salary in the US, but for the education required, I might have done better with my degree in mathematics. Then you spend years trying to help your immediate and extended family, some of whom have made poor decisions about their lives. And they treat you like you're wealthy when you are anything but. I've still only attended one rock concert, and that was over 20 years ago. It turns out it just wasn't that important to me after all.

We may be going to Disneyland as a family in December, around my birthday. Magi has a school-related trip to Anaheim and a room to herself, so Sera and I might tag along. One of my buddies asked me to get him a lightsaber from Star Wars: Galaxy's End now that it is open. It wasn't when I was there in January. When he joked and said he wasn't sure he wanted to spend $200 on a build-you-own lightsaber, I agreed. Bah, I thought. I hate what Star Wars has become, grumble, grumble. But while I was driving almost three hours home yesterday, I had some time to reflect. I absolutely love long drives. It's really my only quiet time where I don't feel like I should be doing something else more productive. I found the original Star Wars soundtrack on Spotify and let myself be transported back to when I was 12 years old.

When I daydream about that kid and his absolute obsession with Star Wars, it makes me happy. I worked in my grandpa's garage a lot. I was allowed to use all the power tools once I was taught how to use them, and there was a shed full of scrap wood to which I could help myself. And his only rule was at the end of my time in the garage, all the tools had to be returned to their proper spots and the sawdust had to be swept up. I made so many toys. I made lightsabers, spray painted blue and red, with taped handles. I made Han Solo's blaster with a nail for a trigger and painted it black. I was also allowed to use a belt clip from a tape measure and screw it on so that I could wear it on a gun belt. I even built a 32-inch long Star Destroyer out of plywood and wood blocks. There were precious few Star Wars toys released in the year following the movie, but I had a die cast Millennium Falcon and X-Wing Fighter, as well as Darth Vader's TIE Fighter. And the Star Destroyer (it wasn't called that yet; it was just an Imperial Cruiser) made a perfect object to fly around. My days were filled with creativity and hands-on work.

And when I returned to 2019, I thought to myself, 12-year-old Jim would have killed to have the opportunity to build his own working lightsaber. So what if the movies made after 1983 haven't been to my taste? That kid wouldn't have even flinched if he'd had the money to do something like that. So, I'm going to start putting aside money right now and I will make my own lightsaber when I have the opportunity. It's time to do the things. If not now, when? I put off so many things when I was younger because I could simply never afford them. I majored in math instead of art because I wanted a steady income. I failed to pursue my dream of working in comics because I was afraid of not making my education pay off.

Okay, that might have been a smart move.

The point is, I can now do all the things I wanted to do when I was a kid. I still have my responsibilities, but it doesn't hurt to indulge once in a while, and satisfy that 40-year-old need or want that I've never forgotten.

A Tale of Two Action Figures

When Mego first introduced the World's Greatest Superheroes

Obviously not my figure!

line, I wanted nothing more than a Batman figure. If you've followed me at all, you've read me writing about how Batman and Robin were my first words, and about the impact that the television show, the cartoon, and the comic book had on me as a young child. Well, for Christmas 1973, my Grandma Blowers came close to making my dream come true. She got me Mego Superman.

Although I was upset for about 15 seconds that it wasn't Batman in the package, I was still pretty okay with having a Superman figure, and I played with it endlessly. My stepfather despised action figures, and well, pretty much anything that made me happy.

"Boys don't play with dolls!"  

I pointed to the box label and said, "It's not a doll. It's an action figure." That cost me a good backhand to the face, but it was worth it, as so many times before it had been. That was not the end of it, of course. He was merciless in his emasculation of anything to do with "dolls." He made fun of me. He called me names. And yes, it was abusive. If you're surprised by this, you must be new friends that I've made recently. Welcome! I sometimes revisit dark times so I can feel good about where and who I am now.

So, Superman was relegated to the toy box after a while. where GI Joe also lived. I would play with him when my stepfather wasn't around, but it seemed like he was always around. Then one day in 1974, a miracle happened. He got a job that required him to travel most of the week. Now my mom, at that time, was pretty happy too. She was able to do whatever she wanted as well. She was under his oppressive thumb just as much as we were, but without the violence.  With Steve gone, Mom didn't feel the need to prepare full meals for everyone, which she did every night after she got home from working a full day, just like he had. So when my stepfather wasn't around, we often just ate fried potatoes for dinner. My mom would chop some onions, saute them, and then add potatoes. End of recipe. We would actually request them for dinner. It was good stuff!

This is where Mom got a little subversive. The Batman figure in the photo has seen better days, right? That IS my original Batman figure. Mom went to Ben Franklin in Hastings, Michigan and bought each of us small, inexpensive figures that we could play with whenever we wanted. I got Batman, my brother Jeff got Robin, and my sister Wendy got Superman. Mom didn't mind us playing with action figures. In fact, I think she enjoyed seeing us happy and playing together. But then the weekend would come and the cloud would be over us again when Steve (NEVER "Dad"; not even once) came home. Here's the subversive part: The difference between figures is that our little vinyl Chemtoys figures could slide right into our pockets when Steve came around. It was like our little conspiracy. That the figures had no articulation was unimportant. It was the freedom to imagine that kept us going.

When my mother died three years ago and I found out that she was living just three blocks from one of our former homes, my Aunt Coleen and Uncle Mike told me that Mom had said that she moved back to Hastings at the end of her life because that's where she had been the happiest in her life. I didn't understand why. I think I do now.

That's where we lived when she bought us those toys.

The Blurry Line Between STEM and STEAM--and Beyond

The lovely Serena Guerra, artist on
The Candy Crimes of the Confectioneer

Yes, we put the M in STEM. It's catchy, isn't it? But what it doesn't say is that I arted the crap out of Solution Squad. It isn't just STEM. It's STEAM. Creating superheroes with colorful costumes that personify math concepts is pretty darned artsy. I even tessellated the Solution Squad logo and used it as a Photoshop mask to make a design that looked cool on clothing (see photo at right).

If that ain't art, I don't know what is. The only reason it doesn't say, "We put the M in STEAM" is because it doesn't rhyme.

And I'll tell you a secret. It isn't just STEAM either. This incredible divide we've invented, and I'll take credit or blame for helping it along, is artificial. When I made up all the names from Equality's family and  the character herself, I made them palindromes: Words that spell the same way backward and forward. Hannah Harrah? Anyone? That's right, I put some English/language arts in that math comic book.


Yes, there is a focus today on the STEM subjects because America is falling behind, blah, blah, blah. The reason the United States is falling behind in technology is because we don't pay anyone. I have half a dozen friends and relatives who are currently IT contractors. They lost their full-time jobs with benefits only to be hired (and in some cases, re-hired) as independent contractors with no right to company-sponsored health insurance. Putting emphasis on the STEM /STEAM fields isn't going to do squat to address corporate greed. And as long as they can pay workers in China 15 cents an hour to make iPhones, all the training in the world isn't going to do us any good.

When I really put my mind to making my math problem solving class appealing to all the students, the sheer number of applications of technology to make art were mind-boggling. I had kids making stop-motion animation. I had them analyzing inflation through Back to the Future. I had them build and help me run two Kickstarters and create merchandise for comic book heroes. Every application that they enjoyed the most involved the arts. And that's not just aesthetics, okay? That's language. How to describe a Kickstarter pledge level to entice people to give you their hard-earned money is persuasive writing, for crying out loud. Understanding sales tax in different states was a part of that too. It's social studies!

I was in an inservice two years ago where some clever influencer-type added reading to the mix, to make it STREAM. The presenter, who was 12 (anyone under 30 looks 12 to me), wisely said, "Add one more letter or so and we're just back to school, I guess." I applauded.

I feel that we are doing a disservice to our students by simply cloaking some of our schools in STEAM or STEAM. Of course those fields are important. I preached the word of mathematics for 32 years. But math without context is useless, and the other subjects we study provide that context. Whenever I hear someone in social studies start to put math down or frame it as the subject that no one is good at, I always have to point out that without algebra we don't have the Electoral College or proportional representation in Congress. And conversely, when I hear someone say, science is of the utmost importance to the detriment of the liberal arts, I have to point at Jurassic Park and say, without ethics, you get loose dinosaurs that breed despite your best efforts. So, yes, by all means, let's teach STEM or STEAM or even STREAM, but for crying out loud, let's know why we're doing it.

Pay the Teacher

The late Harlan Ellison always stood up for what he believed in, and quite frequently what he believed in was getting paid for his work.

Watch this. The video contains profanity and rightfully so. This post does too, something I don't ever use in my public writing, but in this case, it's warranted.

Teachers should take a lesson from Ellison. I keep reading on Twitter about how teachers shouldn't have to pay teachers for lesson plans and everyone should share freely what they have created and I feel like I am now expected to go around singing, "Kumbaya."

BULLSHIT.

This is absolutely, positively the wrong approach to take. I studied hard, paid for a good education, taught for 32 years, and my expertise is not free. I have been asked 1,000 times to write lesson plans for this school activity or assessments for that one, and every last time I say the same thing: I will absolutely do that for you. How much does it pay? Every last time, I'd hear a sputter. "Why, we'll give you release time." Um, thanks, but no thanks. Making me write lesson plans for a substitute is not compensation. It's more work for no pay, and my students suffer. In my school system, and I'm sure in many others, there is a negotiated pay rate for curriculum writing. It's there for a reason. Work done outside your normal job description should be compensated at the agreed upon rate. The end.

So, why is it, then, that teachers do it anyway? "It's for the children," they say. More bullshit. It's a mandate by administration, and if you stick together and refuse to do it for free, they'd pay you. The median age of teachers is shrinking rapidly, and we old guard-types aren't hanging around to show them the ropes. We get dismissed out of hand because we actually want to be paid for our work. "Teaching is a calling," "It's just who I am." "You're just burned out." You know what? You go all out in your classroom and I respect the hell out of that. But if you do free work for someone who is going to use that fact to get promoted onward and upward within administration, and you are simply a chump.

Enjoy being a sucker for the next 30 years because once they find out they can get it out of you without paying you, you'll never stand a chance of regaining what so many of us fought for before you were even born.

It's not noble. It's not heroic. It's stupid.

The same goes for Teachers Pay Teachers. I keep reading about how teachers shouldn't profit from other teachers.

BULLSHIT.

My TpT Solution Squad Primer Full Package includes a 113-screen digital comic that I wrote and lettered and PAID an artist $4,800 to draw. Am I supposed to give it away for free? How are we supposed to create more original materials that are creative and attention-grabbing like my comic? Play the lottery? If you are creating something on your own time that is better than what someone else can come up with on their own because you have the skill, talent, knowledge, and drive to do so, you deserve to be paid for that. Teachers do not take a vow of poverty, and we are not required to sell our services to Pearson for pennies on the dollar for our efforts. The work of teacher entrepreneurs are like what charter schools were supposed to be: Something outside the everyday that makes students stand up and notice. It's your chance to experiment, try new things, and get paid for it. Stop dismissing the idea out of hand because you are already woefully underpaid.

Because if you are underpaid, maybe you should have demanded curriculum rate for those free lesson plans and tests you wrote.

Putting Away Childish Things

"When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things." --I Corinthians 13:11

This is one of my favorite comic books. Superman #338 came out in late May 1979. I was 14 years old, and just finishing eighth grade in Mesick, Michigan. I didn't know it then, but it was a golden time to be a Superman fan. While Batman was my first and favorite hero, Superman was a natural pairing for me. They had had the Batman-Superman Hour as a cartoon in 1969, they had a team-up book (World's Finest) which was one of my favorites, and they were both in the Justice League of America.

Superman's mythology was still completely intact at the time. The bottle city of Kandor, The Fortress of Solitude at the North Pole with the giant yellow key disguised as an aircraft marker, the works. There were all kinds of Kryptonite that had different effects on Kryptonians, there were Bizarros that had their own world, Superman could fly into space without a space suit, travel through time, and the wonders of his universe knew no bounds. And Supergirl was wearing what is still my favorite of her costumes, the one with the billowy sleeves and hot pants. I was 14, okay? In the story, Superman finally succeeds in developing a way to enlarge the bottle city on another planet, so that the surviving Kryptonians from Kandor would have a home outside his Fortress of Solitude. But sadly, the entire city crumbles to dust, as the enlarging ray only worked on "animate objects," leaving the people alive but without their city. More on that in a bit.

Just as Star Wars had a major impact on me at age 12, Superman The Movie brought me right back to my comic book roots. At the time this comic book came out, Superman was just leaving theaters after a very successful first run. And I was already buying everything to do with it before the movie even came out. There was the score on vinyl, trading cards, magazines, Limited Collectors Edition reprints, and of course, the comic books. With great financial need came my first job.

There was an opening for delivering newspapers for the Traverse City Record-Eagle, and I jumped at the chance to take it. Just one problem: I needed a bike to get around. While we lived close to town, walking to school and Little League practices was getting old. Add a paper route to that, and it was time to move up. I owned a single-speed Columbia that was a good bike, but a bit small for me. So, I sold that, and my grandparents gave me a loan of $85 to buy a new Huffy 10-speed. In return, I would pay them back half of my newspaper route money each week. I thought that a perfectly fair deal, and I had my bike the next day.

The Record-Eagle only printed six days a week. There was no Sunday paper, which made Monday's paper the thickest. It had all the weekly ads. The papers were delivered to my house in the afternoon, right about 3:40 PM. The newspapers were delivered flat, and I would cut them loose and put them in my bag. Also in my bag was my battery-powered cassette recorder, which blared the Superman soundtrack wherever I went. I had painstakingly recorded the Superman score from vinyl to a blank tape in my tape recorder. My bike was stable enough that you would have often seen me riding with both my arms outstretched in front of me. I could finish the whole three-mile route in about 25 minutes unless it was collection day. That's when I had to go around and collect $1.05 per week from each subscriber. They would pay the money, and I would punch the dates paid from a card that I kept on a ring. The problem was that I had to shell out the money for the newspaper subscriptions in advance. And if they didn't pay, I didn't have the money to pay for my papers. Yes, even back then, subcontracting was the way to go for businesses. I never liked having to explain that to people, but they needed to know that if they didn't pay, I was the one on the hook for their newspaper costs.

The rest of the summer days were left to me. I deliberately took a photo of Superman #338 with the shadows of tree leaves on it. Because that was the best way to spend time in the summer, reading comics outdoors in the shade. Air conditioning was available at my grandparents' house, just across a small field, but time alone with my imagination, comic books, and drawing paper was really all that I needed. With the Copemish Flea Market being held every weekend nearby, my grandma and I would be off to pick up fresh produce for the week, while I would always find the guy with cheap comic books.

As summer went on, though, things changed. I suddenly realized that I would be starting high school in September. And the story in Superman #338 kept coming back to me. After the destruction of all the inanimate matter in Kandor (except clothing, apparently) Superman felt so guilty about the tragedy that he was going to stay to help the Kandorians rebuild. His friend Van-Zee, however sucker punched him, knocking Superman unconscious, telling Supergirl that they needed to leave because the Kandorians had chosen a world that would only occasionally be in the same dimension as Earth. They had chosen it so that they could sever all ties with Superman and be independent. I didn't understand the term patriarchy at the time, but I got the idea. The Kandorians wanted to stand on their own and tame a new world without Superman's fatherly protective gaze looking over them all the time. I was starting to feel the same way. I didn't need people telling me what to do all the time, either. I had my first job and was earning my own money for the first time.

The comic book guy at the flea market didn't just sell comics. He traded them two-for-one. I never spent any more money there. I started trading my existing comics for the ones he had that I hadn't read yet. And over the next several weeks, my collection, started only two and a half years previously, dwindled. I would buy only one more Superman comic, Action Comics #500, before the end of summer, but in the end, that too, would be gone. I was saying goodbye to my childhood, not just to my newly-discovered free childhood, but to my stolen childhood as well.

In the fall, I started playing varsity football as a freshman. And then basketball in the winter, and baseball in the spring into summer. My focus was decidedly different, and more grown up, or so I imagined. But what I learned over the four years of high school was that the social structures of high school relationships could be just as fragile as a house of cards. Most of the friendships I made through sports did not survive the four years. I was simply too different in what I believed and in what I enjoyed. I refused to get drunk every weekend like all of my peers, and my gravitation toward nerdy things remained, even though I resisted comic books. I would still read science fiction novels, movie tie-ins, and the like. In my mind, I had finally put away "childish things."

Thank goodness I came to my senses.

Old Dogs and New Tricks

I learned a valuable lesson this past weekend: I can't work for anyone.

Okay, that may be overstating it a bit. Clearly, I can teach under a principal and such. But I went to a portfolio review given by a well-known editor of graphic novels this weekend, handed over my Solution Squad book, and they thumbed through it for about 20 seconds before telling me that I'd be better served by making a nonfiction math graphic novel. I visibly flinched. I know I did. And before I could stop myself, I told this person very plainly that as a math teacher with three decades of experience, that respectfully, there was nothing worse I could imagine than a nonfiction math graphic novel.

I was told that kids would want character-driven stories in which math was used. I responded curtly with, "That's exactly what this is." Then came the final straw. They condescendingly said, "Have you ever heard of Gene Luen Yang and Nathan Hale?" I almost laughed out loud. I turned the book over and pointed to the two blurbs on the back cover of my book by...Gene Luen Yang and Nathan Hale.

"You mean these guys?"

 I ended up walking away after standing in line for an hour with a new perspective. I may not be the best-selling author in the world, but just because someone works and is known in the industry, it doesn't make them an authority on everything in it. On the other hand, they may be completely right and I'm wrong. But I'm not going to spend the rest of my life making books I don't want to make. I won't be working on comics for this person, and I'm pretty sure I'm not going to work for anyone else, either. I've spent enough years listening to people who know less about what I do than I do, and having to do what they say. If I fail, I will fail because of my own actions, not because someone wants me to be the next Gene Luen Yang or Nathan Hale. I love those guys and everything they do, but I'm never going to be them.

I'm going to be the best Jim McClain there is.