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?