Introduction to the "DC vs Marvel Battle Series"

I grew up with two older brothers. And while I certainly didn’t learn how to be an athlete from them, I did learn about things that are much more important in my life now than sports. I learned how to have an imagination, how being a nerd is not all bad and how superheroes are amazing. However we tend have tiny disagreements as to which superheroes are better. There are two major comic book publishers in the United States, DC Comics and Marvel. Even though DC Comics came first with their costumed heroes, Marvel wasn’t far behind and the rivalry began. In our household it’s 2 vs. 2. My brothers are both Marvel fans, while my father and I both favor DC. I have respect for a few of the Marvel characters of note, but I am definitely not as enamored with that world as I am with that of DC. One of my brothers told me the reason Marvel was better is because the characters were based in real U.S. cities that readers could identify with, where readers could understand the geography of the world in which the heroes inhabited. I’m less certain about this claim as it would stand to reason that a real city could then have these superheroes that have been imagined by Stan Lee and Steve Ditko, which I believe dampens the hope that these fictional characters inspire. In an attempt to once and for all prove that DC Comic characters are better than Marvel, I’m declaring war. Battles shall ensue between the heralded characters that have transplanted themselves from yesterday into the lives of children today. No holds barred as characteristics are scrutinized, costumes are placed under a microscope and the gloves come off. Stay tuned for the encroaching “DC vs. Marvel Battle Series”!

It's Possible to Forget

Sometimes I forget that I’m black. How? You may as well ask. I’m surrounded. I’m surrounded almost completely by people who don’t look like me – not just in my real, waking, breathing, touching other people life – but also in the popular culture I immerse myself in: the books, the plays, the music, the movies, the television shows. All I see is the same face, different features plastered upon it, a slight tint to the hue and a different shade of hair that flows perfectly, short or long, in a cascading wave of manageability. I confess I get confused. I get caught up sometimes and I forget, for short spans of time about my ethnicity or race or whatever the name, the silly spoon-like name, that defines me, describes me as different than those in my world. It’s not how eccentric I am. It’s not how my personality allows me to like and dislike people with great intensity depending on the time of day, the day of the week, the month, the year. It’s my skin, no matter how flawless, how devoid of imperfections, how smooth or how warm. It’s my hair, no matter how straight, how wet, how clean, how sweetly scented or how long. It’s my face, with my broad nose, my wide eyes, my larger than average, by which implies white-pink thin lips, my forehead. I am black. When I forget, for those short seconds, I always find my way back to the identity I was born into. When I glance in the mirror or catch a reflection from the dark computer screen that echoes back my image as I stare at face alone in the ether, which reminds me of me, of who I am. When I scratch my head and hit the kinky root, after the relaxer begins to fade and my hair becomes tough, resilient and unyielding once more, agitated by the pull of the comb, annoyed by the use of a brush, I feel that brittle but soft hair that comes from my ancestors that I of course have learned is coarse because of the harsh warm conditions where they lived as they evolved into a breed of humans not fit to be humans by those who remained fair and unchanged by their conditions in such an extremely different way than all those that surrounded them. When I look in someone’s eyes, the eyes of a friend, the eyes of a family member, the eyes of a stranger, which more often than not are not muddied with brown but springy and light with green or cool and wet with blue. I may forget from time to time but the sense of who I am, what I am,, comes rushing back every time, every second making up for the seconds when I lost the grasp of my eternal reality. We may be working towards not seeing ourselves as different from others because of our skin or because of our hair but how can we not when it’s innate? How can we not teach what we were taught? How can we teach something, we can’t believe no matter how hard we tried because our brains no longer accept change or alterations in our permanent perceptions?

Trench Coats

Why is it that whenever I put on a trench coat I feel so much more powerful? Is it the iconic figures you think of whenever you see a trench coat? Like Dick Tracy or Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca or Peter Petrelli from Heroes? I don't mean that I feel more powerful in the sense of being a superhero or anything like that. I don't feel impervious or stronger. I just feel safer and more confident. But that might just be me. I mean some people can associate trench coats with perverts and flashers. And there are many people who feel that trench coats are sexy, especially when the person (usually a woman) is wearing nothing underneath of it. But like I said, that's not me. I'm the person who feels like trench coat wearers represent the good in the world, not just a good private eye, but a person with the confidence to be a good person. I believe that we can personify what we wear and by wearing a trench coat (in the right context), we can show our inner strength to the world. It's like wearing your heart on your sleeve, only in this case, it's more like wearing your confidence in an open forum. Hopefully we can all be trench coat wearers, in the metaphorical sense that I'm trying to get across to you. Because trench coat wearers are here to stay and when worn right, that is a very good thing...

Airport Meet Cute

He stared at her, sizing her up as she waited in line for her order to be completed. He was almost certain that she was a basketball player and by the USC sweatshirt she donned and the adidas sports bag she carried, he supposed she was a college athlete as well. Swallowing his nervousness, he plucked up enough courage to ask the girl,
“Do you play ball?”

The girl snapped out of her dreamy state of mind, surprised that someone was talking to her, especially as she waited for the idiots at Burger King to finish preparing her veggie burger she thought she had paid way too much for. But the boy’s question was really what startled her. Never before had someone pegged her for a basketball player, just from looking at her. True, she did often wear sweatshirts and sweatpants from her time on basketball teams in high school but even then most people saw her as a track runner. And that really boggled her. She guessed that it was probably because of her long legs, and maybe she looked quick. But in all honesty she wasn’t, she could never keep up when she was a runner – which might have had to do with her decreased lung capacity. Looking at boy she decided it would be a bit rude to just ignore him, and she also thought he was a bit cute, if not in physical features but in the way he had outright asked her a question, flirted with her (something she was definitely not used to ). Her food was finally ready as she replied with a small smile, “I used to.” She then proceeded to walk away and went back to the gate her airplane would soon depart from, marveling at the short encounter and feeling a big regretful that she hadn’t continued the conversation.

A few minutes later she returned, breezing by the boy who was just sitting down to enjoy his greasy meal to grab some napkins. The numbskulls behind the counter had gotten her order wrong and put ketchup, her least favorite condiment on earth, on her veggie burger. As she was leaving, she walked past him and he asked her, “Why’d you quit playing ball?”

“I wasn’t tough enough,” she replied, almost sadly.

“’Not tough enough’?” he echoed.

She shrugged.

“Yeah,” she said, with a gorgeous smile dancing across her lips.

“I can understand that,” he said. She smiled again and then continued on out of the airport restaurant and out of his life.

She walked back to her gate. Regret began to cloud her mind. She realized she probably should have stayed to talk, to learn more about this guy, to see if anything more could grow out of this chance meeting. As she found a seat in the crowded waiting area and began to wipe the ketchup off her patty, she thought to herself: I couldn’t have stayed there. I hate eating in front of other people .Especially strangers.

Quill and Ink

Whatever happened to a nice feathered quill and a pot of ink as the medium for writing? Why was such a beautiful means of creation abandoned? Convenience, of course. And spelling. If you weren’t an impeccable speller in the days before word processors and spell check then you would be ridiculed beyond belief. It is true that typos occur, even in this advanced technological age but they can be easily be rectified. But if beauty were more important than convenience for horrible spellers then we would still be subject to the magnificence that a nib that has been dipped in a well of ink can create when it touches the page. Even with the vast choices that are available in the proffered word processor of the age, most likely some form of Word, they still don’t hold a candle to the long-hand style of writing that was once so popular. But as time goes on, it’s become important to leave the outdated behind and look to the future. My favorite phrase, thanks in part to Douglas Adams who I learned it from, is applicable here: “Resistance is futile”. And indeed it is.