Many times in past columns I have set forth the idea that comic fans need to do everything they can to get kids into comics. In fact, as recently as September 19th, in a column entitled "Childhood Lightbulbs", I was extolling the benefits of children reading more comics when I stated that "the comics industry will be gaining fans who will grow up and buy their books. The kids themselves will learn to read better, and the parents will have found for their children an essentially harmless pastime that engages their imagination much more than television or video games."
My loyal readers might have noticed that Advocating Comics has not appeared on Broken Frontier in over two weeks. I have been busy dealing with some real-world concerns while gone, but during my two-week absence from the site, I have not swerved from my resolve that children and comics are a winning combination. Quite the opposite—the idea has been present in my mind the entire time I was away. If you’ll allow me a brief aside to tell you a story then, I’ll explain why I was gone and how that pertains to comic advocacy.
When I was a child, my extended family endlessly doted on me at every family gathering I can remember, a practice that they still continue to this day. Because I learned to read at two years old, they somehow got the impression that I was a super-genius, and ever since they have paid me special attention. Even today, at Thanksgiving dinners, my family refers to me as "professor" (even though I fall far short of deserving that title) and they always fight over whose team I will be on when we play Trivial Pursuit.
In particular, I had one aunt and uncle who were in constant amazement of my intelligence and would especially dote on me because of it. To this day, my aunt tells stories of how she would be speaking to the other adults and spell words they didn’t want us kids to hear. Apparently, it was a regular trick of mine to tell the adults what words they were trying to keep secret, a feat that never failed to impress her.
These relatives of mine lived about four hours away from me but frequently came down to visit, and every time they did, they brought me a present. Their next-door neighbor was a stage magician, so they brought me magic tricks whenever they saw me. When they found out I liked He-Man, they gave me action figures on every occasion, even when there was no occasion to speak of.
Why did they shower me with gifts? Part of their kindness, I’m sure, was because I was the firstborn of my generation of the family, and yes, part of it was that, because of my "genius," I was favored. They didn’t have children of their own, and so perhaps that is the explanation for their generosity. Whatever reasons were behind it, they showered me with not just presents but genuine affection as well.
My most recent memory of my uncle is again of a Thanksgiving. He called me over to where he was sitting on the couch, watching football, because he said he wanted to shake my hand. As he did, he told me, "You’re smarter than any of these sons of bitches, and we’re so damn proud of you." As he spoke these words to me, I could tell he was getting choked up a bit. I thanked him as best I could, shaking his hand again and again because he seemed unwilling to let go. When I finally did walk away, I found a folded-up one hundred dollar bill in the palm of my hand. It was then that I realized that these gifts were not simply his tactic at purchasing my affection; rather, they were the only way he knew how to express his love for me.
I’ve been thinking of these gifts my uncle gave me a lot lately, because he died about three weeks ago. His health had been touch and go for a while, so it wasn’t really a surprise. Nor is it the kind of tragedy you often hear of, a family suffering a loss that came too soon. When I call him my uncle, that’s not completely accurate. He’s actually my grandma’s uncle, my great-great-uncle, so of course he was quite advanced in years.
And my uncle wasn’t exactly a perfect saint either. One of his chief traits was his incredible racism. When he would watch the football games on Thanksgiving, he would always have some sort of comment to make about the "n----r running back;" I learned the meaning behind more epithets from his lips than I ever did on TV or in films. He swore constantly at these family gatherings, in a household where "shut up" was viewed as something inappropriate to say. He was also a big gambler, always bringing me "gifts" along with the He-Man figures such as key chains with the names of racetracks on them.
Will I recall those racist and crude comments ten or fifteen years from now? Perhaps, but I am much more likely to remember the moments of benevolence he showed me throughout his life. That’s the nature of grieving, I think, that after our loved ones are gone we forgive and forget their flaws and only keep in mind their positive traits. That’s especially true of us in childhood; the way we perceive the people around us is easily influenced but is also ready to accept the good and reject the bad.
My point is that the impressions that were made on us as children will never leave us. For example, my aunt and uncle loved Long John Silvers, and I will never be able to eat at that restaurant without thinking of the times we went there when I was a child. Similarly, we must realize that the impressions we as adults make upon children they will carry until the day they die.
I’ve been thinking of that concept non-stop since my uncle’s death. I spent time away from all my responsibilities to collect myself, and then I got overwhelmed by the duties at work I had been neglecting. But all the while, I was thinking of the impressions I could make upon the children I know, in tribute to my uncle and his generous spirit.
So today I again charge you to give a comic book to a child, not because it will help that child read or even to help the industry survive. Give a child a comic book to make that child happy, to brighten that child’s day and to give that child something positive to reminisce about years from now.
