A Marvelous Identity: Ms. Marvel and the importance of comic books

By: Ricardo A. Serrano Denis


    Storytelling, no matter how much it indulges in its fiction, can never truly escape reality. Social tensions, cultural anxieties, historical continuity, all of these things cling to fiction and demand that their presence be felt in comic books, film, and video games. The same goes with different genres. During the Cold War, Westerns dominated pop culture because they resonated most, in discourse and representation, with the ideological battle that the United States waged against Soviet Russia. The good guys (cowboys) were American bred, morally righteous, and white. The bad guys (Native Americans) were foreign to the ways of the good guys, antagonistic to American expansion, and red (labeled as such by the good guys and ironically compatible with the Soviet enemy). Who knew Native Americans could so easily fit into a metaphor for Cold War Communists? After Westerns, different genres took the mantle of Cold War politics and created stories that best reflected the different phases of said conflict (see Cold War science fiction and horror for some of the best examples), taking into account new developments and their wavering meanings. What was interesting was that each genre had its hero. Westerns had cowboys, combat films had soldiers, noirs had broken detectives, and thrillers had their spies. So, in a sense, one can say that genres define heroes the same way heroes define genres. But what of the heroes that stray from the classic formulas of Golden Age comics? What of those heroes of the post-9/11 world that are not a part of the Avengers or the Justice League? What of heroes that are Muslim, Latino, or Asian? What do they make of their genre, the superhero genre? And what does the genre make of them and their identities?

      Like a direct answer to these questions comes Ms. Marvel, written by G. Willow Wilson and illustrated by Adrian Alphona. Ms. Marvel tells the story of Kamala Khan, a 16 year-old Pakistani-American from New Jersey who idolizes Carol Danvers, the first Ms. Marvel from the comic book world. Kamala Khan is the fourth character to take the name of Ms. Marvel, inserting herself into Marvel’s current Marvel NOW! series—a semi-reboot of the Marvel universe intended to pull in new readers. Kamala is young, of color, and a minority, two elements that not only dictate identity in a very fierce manner but also inform the social tensions that define the post-9/11 world. She is also Muslim, a character trait (come 9/11) that automatically communicates persecution and antagonism. This does not even have to be alluded to textually for the reader to comprehend the character’s current state of affairs. Kamala’s religion is inherently added into the mix of components that makes her identity so reactive.

     Now, being a comic that deals in identity so directly, it is important we recognize the elements that make that topic drive the character into being a superhero. Those elements come out of Carol Danvers, the first female character to take up the name of Ms. Marvel. Kamala Khan idolizes Carol Danvers. This idolization comes through her fan fiction writings in the comic. Kamala’s characters are all supreme metaphors for American values. Captain America, Iron Man, and Carol Danvers/Captain Marvel all make their appearances in her fantasy superhero stories. Captain America represents American war, Iron Man represents American freedom through economical gain and freedom, and Danvers represents a very traditional female image built into American conceptions of beauty and its power. She stands for a sort of female normalcy that plays second fiddle to male predominance in heroic deeds. It is of no wonder, then, that Kamala finds refuge in Danvers.

     Danvers is a white, blond bombshell that dresses in a skimpy black outfit with a yellow thunderbolt symbol across her chest. She was usually drawn the traditionally sexist way Marvel and DC drew (and continues to draw) their female characters, breasts bigger than her head and barely covered by a modified swimsuit (see most iterations of Wonder Woman and Elektra). This image extends well into the comic book culture of the 90s and early 2000s and makes up a sort of sexually misguided tradition that kept female superhero characters a step behind their male counterparts. They were objects readers could drool over instead of idols and examples they could follow or wish to become. Kamala falls under the second tier of followers by wanting to be Danvers in image, spectacularly sexualized though it may be. But Kamala’s intentions are far from sexual. They are cultural. They speak to identity, American identity.

      Ms. Marvel #1 opens with Kamala coveting, as she says, “delicious, delicious infidel meat.” She’s in a convenience store with friends when two, American, classmates come in and go through the now customary passive-aggressive culture bashing. We immediately meet a Kamala that desperately wants to fit in, to be “normal”. Of course, being normal means going out to parties and drinking with boys. The comic never directly associates normalcy with being American, but it is heavily implied. Kamala’s obsession with Carol Danvers further hits the nail on the proverbial coffin. Consider Kamala’s claim to normalcy after her very traditional father prohibits her from going out to an outdoor party:

     It’s just one party. It’s not like I’m asking their 
     permission to snort cocaine…Why am I the only one who 
     gets signed out of health class? Why do I have to bring 
     Pakoras to school for lunch?...Everybody else gets to be normal. 
     Why can’t I?

The discourses are simple enough: foreign girl wants to fit in. Her culture and the traditions that define her family’s identity hold her back. That she resists them is not only logical but expected given Kamala’s family is far away from home, and that sense of home cannot be expected to fully migrate into American soil intact. Kamala’s discursive rebellion follows an actual act of rebellion when she escapes to the party her father forbade her from going. At the party Kamala drinks, throws up, and is made fun of by the same classmates that teased her in the convenience store scene. She is ridiculed, making her identity stand out all the more. The stage is set for the transformation.

      As Kamala walks back to her house Terrigen mists descend upon Jersey City, swallowing up Kamala into a cocoon that transforms her into an Inhuman. The Terrigen mists are part of Marvel’s Infinity event, where the Inhumans and Thanos unleash a force that seeks out beings with Inhuman genes to encase them in cocoons that awaken their powers. Inside the cocoon Kamala is visited by three superhero hallucinations: Captain America, Iron Man, and Carol Danvers (now as Captain Marvel). They are the same characters that appear in her fan fiction. They question her intentions, her drive to be normal. They look like gods, speaking to their universal traits rather than their nationalistic ones. This is important considering the three heroes represent Americanism in one of its most intense forms. They are heroes we aspire to be. But they are heroes that never stray from their nationalities. Danvers asks the ultimate question: “What do you want to be?” To which Kamala answers: “I want to be you. Except I would wear the classic, politically incorrect costume and kick butt in giant wedge heels.” Kamala challenges her identity, reasserts her right to make up her identity as she pleases (a very American ideal should it stick to its utopic underpinnings), and makes the decision. Danvers answers, in a very wise manner, “It is not going to turn out the way you think.” Kamala wakes up, breaks out of the cocoon, and stands into the light a blond superhero in a skimpy black outfit, the same one she wanted. She became an American superhero.

      According to Thomas Schatz, in his book Hollywood Genres: Formulas, Filmmaking, and the Studio System (1981), genres are privileged story forms in which social tensions are brought to life in narratives and are ritualistically resolved. But popular genres, he explains, are those that can best animate and resolve social tensions through their metaphors. Comic books are popular culture products carrying within their pages iconic characters that proudly represent, and define, the superhero genre. Their power, the thing that makes comics matter, comes from the fact that the superheroes that live in the comic book pages can convincingly resolve social tensions, suppressing, if only marginally, the things that feed off of them. Superheroes are metaphors for a better way of life, for a way to do things the right way. That is why we want to be them, just like Kamala.

     Ms. Marvel is a powerful comic for various reasons, many of which I have explored here. But in the end, we find that Kamala is not so different from the average comic book reader. She wanted to be something different and she succeeded in doing so. Her reasons are complex, not too alien from things we have felt more than once in our lives. She becomes a superhero to fit in, to be a part of something that does not understand her. In looking for normalcy she further distanced herself from it. Her metaphor is one of change, of acceptance, and of diversity. She contemplates the possibility that equality is too naïve an aspiration. Instead she represents an alternative. In a world where identity can label heroes and villains too freely, Kamala speaks for diversity as a superpower rather than a weakness. For Kamala the word Muslim does not mean terrorist or not-normal, it means superhero.

Language and Myth in Comic Books

By: Gabriel Alejandro

"And in spite of current evidence to the contrary, actions do not rule the world... words do."

-Jonathan Hickman, East of West issue 11

     Whenever we hear the word “myth” being used, it often conveys one of two things: a negative charge against another’s basis for an argument or belief; or as a reference to the Greek gods that once inhabited Mount Olympus. We often forget that at the core of every myth lies a reality which, after the process of “mythification,” acquires new dimensions for its target audience. What distinguishes myth from fiction is that its elements (characters, setting, events, etc.) often resonate with the audience’s life experience and thus can become a valid explanation for that which cannot be easily understood or explained. Myths began as oral traditions, with each narrator adding something from their own personal undergoing to the general mythos. This was and still is possible due to language (either oral or written) and its conventions, which allows for different versions to deviate from the standard and still be accepted as part of a whole. Today, the same language mechanisms that allowed for the dissemination of classical myths are alive and well in the comic book medium, thus granting them a special place in modern culture

Language theory

     In order to proceed, we must begin with the late literary critic Terrence Hawkes’ take on myth: “All myths, that is, have their grounding in the actual generalized experience of [ancient] peoples, and represent their attempts to impose a satisfactory, graspable, humanizing shape on it” (Structuralism and Semiotics 13). This refers to a tendency in human history to bricolage or, in other words, use a familiar word for something alien. Just try to remember those bad movies where a native from some jungle is taken to a city for the first time and refers to a car as a “metal horse.” The native, taken from his setting (and language), employs a defense mechanism of sorts, in which he tries to understand the new world by means of his own language. This mechanism, also used in myth-making, is a way of coping with unknown events through metaphorical language, or “... to deal with the world, that is, not directly but at a remove” (Hawkes 15). For a while it was also referred to as “the primitive mind” by language scholars and thus underestimated its historical value. It was not until the French anthropologist Claude Lévi‑Strauss’ study, which took myths beyond “child-like play” and into a more “sophisticated relationship with the world,” that scholars began to view myths as portals into the past.

Comic book mythos

     Lévi-Strauss study focused on how myths, and the language they are built upon, echo a particular point in time’s surroundings. His concern was “… ultimately with the extent to which the structures of myths prove actually formative as well as reflective of men’s minds...” (Hawkes 41). In this aspect, we can witness how the language –dialogue, names, and imagery– of myths reflect a particular social and/or historic context, depending on their moment of conception. Furthermore, we can also make the jump into comic books, where some of our most beloved characters were created out of historic events. In With Great Power: The Stan Lee Story documentary, Stan Lee explains the birth of many of Marvel’s superheroes. In all of these instances, the character’s raison d'être mirrored a particular language from the times: In the early sixties (1962), the Hulk was born amid nuclear fears and proliferation of words such as “atomic,” and “radiation,” elements with which Bruce Banner worked with and suffered from respectively. A year later (1963), Iron Man was first published among the hatred for the U.S. military industrial complex. The name itself, Iron, being a clear signifier of the struggle. A few more years down the road, The Silver Surfer (1966) was the answer to the flower power movement. A pacifist alien who mediates between a destroyer of worlds and its victims. The list goes on and on.

     It must be said that language is not limited to the written word. Images and symbols also figure into what is known as semiology, or the study of meaning-making. In one of the clearest examples, Captain America’s name stands for an infinite set of ideals of the North American nation. Moreover, his appearance in 1940, during the lead-up years to the U.S.’s involvement in World War II, made him a symbol for the inevitable. The first issue, which showed the Captain punching Adolf Hitler in the face, sold out immediately and was met with patriotic fervor. Beyond Hitler, the Captain battled enemies such as the “Red” Skull, shown with a swastika in the above picture. The Red Skull’s name is not only a literary reminder of the red scare that spanned almost four decades (from 1919 to 1954), but it is also a visual reminder of it.

Modern Times

      This language recourse is still very much present in comic books today. Recently, Rick Remender’s run of Captain America introduced a new villain called Dr. Mindbubbles, another post-Captain America super-soldier failed experiment with the particularity that the serum used on him was laced with the drug known as LSD. On this occasion, the semiology transports us to a time when drugs were not perceived as entirely evil and the U.S. government studied its benefits for personal gain. One may ask then: Is Remender fifty years too late with the character? The answer is no. Remender’s character comes at a time when the legality of some drugs is being contested in the U.S., and the language used in the arguments both for and against echoes the language of the past. The character is then validated by the previous and current historical contexts, or as Roland Barthes notes in his book Mythologies, “…the materials of mythical speech (the language itself, photography, painting, posters, rituals, objects, etc.), however different at the start, are reduced to a pure signifying function as soon as they are caught by myth” (113). This tool of language then allows for the myth to be accepted by contemporaries for its factual background and passed on to future generations for its historical value.

Popular acceptance

      The acceptance of these comic book myths also lies within the realm of language. Two basic concepts, the langue and parole, establish the glass through which these myths must be seen. In language, langue stands for language as-is, its rules and “correctness.” On the other hand, the parole stands for its everyday use, filled with mistakes, variations, and alterations. As with language, these myths stem out of a reality that can be seen as a langue. Thus, the variations, reinterpretations, and reimagining of past or current events lie within the parole. The public’s acceptance then comes of how close the myth can come to the reality without it actually being the reality. The more elements of reality the myth has, the better. If it has less, then it is just fantasy.

      Nowadays it is not even necessary to even purchase a comic book in order to know who Superman is, or how Captain America came to be. These characters have withstood the test of time, but they have not done it on their own. Every couple of years a new voice comes to carry the superhero myth in the form of writers. The “magicians” as Alan Moore would say, are tasked with the duty of breathing life into the characters and often take from personal experiences to shape their contributions. As with myths and their oral counterparts, comic book writers take from an established tradition to which they must answer to, but can also add to the story with some restrictions. The parameters are established by the language of each character at its moment of creation, which define its nature and myth. Writers then provide readers with a more updated language, one that reflects his or her contextual setting, and the public decides whether to accept it or not into the mythos. This, again, is possible due to language conventions and concepts such as langue and parole, which allow for an immovable canon to exist under unlimited variations of it. As time passes, the origins of our characters are questioned less and the focus shifts to where they are situated in the now. As long as there is a language to fill the pages with stories, comic book characters will continue to exist as an alternative to our reality.

Captain America: The Winter Soldier- Endorsing Good Wars

By: Ricardo A. Serrano Denis

      Is World War II still the Good War? This was the title of an Adam Kirsch New York Times article exploring just that, the goodness of the Second World War. It came out in March 2011, when Iraq and Afghanistan had pushed Americans to question the extent of confidence a country could extended towards military might and strategy in the twenty first century. Militarism as a virtue, as a primary national value, seemed to be dwindling in representational prowess. The distance breached between morality on the home front and morality on the battlefield had broadened much to the disadvantage of war as an American ideal. Fighting in the Middle East made military conflict an impersonal experience, much detached from the cohesiveness of the American experience. More importantly, it became its own entity, with its own politics and its own history. In other words, it went opposite the Second World War’s route, that of war as the defining principle of American society. Kirsch will conclude that World War II will stay “good” so long as it stays living history. Living history, in turn, can instruct, it can still impart teachings of its own and tell people that there actually is a right way to conduct war. Of course, Kirsch explains that such histories need to take into account ambiguities and morally gray areas. But when memory is so highly elevated as to be considered near mythical, then, we have another thing entirely. War was “good” back then. Therefore, war can still be “good”. And Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014) endorses just that idea.

      Captain America means many things, but most of them rely on his war to make sense. The Second World War lives through Steve Rogers the same way Steve Rogers lives through it. It might make the character unstuck in time and it might keep him from being a more universal metaphor for war in America, but it keeps the war’s memory fairly grounded in what Kirsch referred to as living history. The character’s many discourses have been touched upon before. He upholds conservative politics, endorses a continued state of war, exalts ultra-patriotism, and survives as a testament to the goodness of the Second World War. These things hold true in the movie. 

      Directed by Anthony and Joe Russo, Captain America: The Winter Soldier keeps with Captain America’s longstanding character conventions and gives us a fairly safe war movie. Rogers is now a part of SHIELD, just in time to watch it fall into the hands of HYDRA. In true sequel fashion, old enemies continue to haunt Rogers. HYDRA remains the Nazi stand-in par excellence (if HYDRA is not an offshoot of Nazism then nothing is), and is the main villain of the story. Captain America favorites such as Arnim Zola and obscure villains such as The Leaper pop up to keep true followers anxious for more. But it is the Winter Soldier that makes the movie stand above standard superhero fare. The character contrasts so starkly with Rogers that the whole HYDRA plot could have been scrapped so as to focus entirely on the Winter Soldier. In fact, the Winter Soldier is more a secondary story arc playing to the overarching plot that deals with war on a more general level. 

       The inclusion of the Winter Soldier could have been an interesting counterweight to the discourses of old residing in Rogers. The Winter Soldier, created by Ed Brubaker (who makes a blink-or-you’ll-miss-it cameo in the film) is revealed as Roger’s lost sidekick, Bucky. Brubaker broke one of the only rules Marvel comics resisted touching (only Bucky stays dead) to make Captain America face his war with an added sense of ambiguity that judges his sense of being as superficial and overtly simplistic. In the comics, when the long lost sidekick returns as a Soviet-trained super-soldier Rogers knows he not only faces Bucky but the war that turned him against America.

     Bucky’s Cold War turns history into a lesson that descends upon Rogers and lectures him on the darkness American history carried out of the Second World War. He distorts the idea of goodness in war by ridding himself of the conflict that grounded him in a bygone era that barely resonated later on. Captain America slept through the Cold War, conveniently frozen at the bottom of the ocean so as not to witness the United States fall into hysteria, anti-communist paranoia, and proxy wars that strayed farther still from the mythic principles of World War II. It was a time Rogers could very well find war to be at its most un-American. But the fact he slept through it meant his example, and that of the Second World War, did not shine bright enough to keep America from derailing into morally ambiguous territories. The Cold War could not be saved by the Good War because it was frozen in time, a memory that sought shelter rather than facing the realities of a world dictated by nuclear politics. So why not right that wrong with Captain America and a big silver screen production that pits him against a villain borne out of the Cold War?

     That Rogers faces the Winter Soldier can be seen as just that, an attempt to save the Cold War after the fact. Captain America, unfrozen, looks back into the history that pushes the Winter Soldier into the will of HYDRA and sees an opportunity to once again prove his war’s might can save all wars, turn them good. All throughout the movie the audience is subjected to scenes of Rogers visiting museum exhibits dedicated to himself, his old uniform in display. Once we see the old uniform standing above a display of the Howling Commandos, we know that, in the end, Captain America will revert to that uniform (not a suit) and go into battle as a World War II soldier first and a superhero second.

     It is never clear which war weighs more on the Winter Soldier throughout the movie. Arnim Zola is the Winter Soldier’s creator in the film, more a Nazi than a Soviet, but the movie does stress his secret Soviet assassin past. The fact Zola plays Winter Soldier’s Frankenstein keeps the character between wars. He is the darkness between. The thing war is capable of but should not be. Either way, it falls to Captain America to prove that his war, one no one questions as being his, can save both the day and the idea that war can still be a virtue if not a moral responsibility. And keeping to our expectations, the day and war is saved, and very convincingly. Captain America in his old uniform explodes on scene as a war god, the ultimate authority on militarism and how Americans should interact with its war powers. So, is World War II still the Good War? The answer is obvious if you are Captain America. Can War, in all its dimensions, be Good forevermore? Yes, but only if it follows in the footsteps of the Second World War.

Batman #29: The Dark Knight Rises Again and Meets Gotham City

By: Ricardo A. Serrano Denis

      Retelling old tales means, up to a point, updating myths. Making them make sense in the present. But it does not mean they stopped making sense in the first place. New generations deserve to know their heroes' origin stories. In them we find elements that bring us closer to the hero, fictional paths that coincide with real life, and personal parallels that speak to the similarities between us and the men and women whose feats we read about. Joseph Campbell, in his book The Hero with a Thousand Faces, says, “the effect of the successful adventure of the hero is the unlocking and release again of the flow of life into the body of the world.” Following Campbell’s words, a hero’s birth can be argued as the beginning of life, provided we acknowledge that a hero’s origin is not necessarily expected to begin at the actual biological birth of the character. Instead it most often comes out of a traumatic event that obliterates what the character previously believed was the absolute definition of life. Trauma in the world of the comic book separates the normal from the spectacular. But it also establishes that the spectacular has a price. So, from the ashes of the previous life the hero is expected to rise like a phoenix, carrying the original trauma and converting it into the new origin, the thing that gives the hero’s life purpose.

     Scott Snyder and Greg Capullo’s Batman run seems to have a deep understanding of what it means to carry trauma as a symbol close to the hero’s chest. In Batman #29 Snyder brings the second part of the Zero Year storyline, Dark City, to a close. After Snyder retells the origin of the Joker and Gotham blacks out after the Riddler turns the city into an actual riddle, Batman must face the possibility his humanity can truly interfere with his success as a superhero. And a superhero he is, although readers often forget the man behind the mask is no more super than the people he has sworn to protect.

     What is interesting with Batman #29 is that Batman is improvising. The road Snyder’s Dark Knight traverses is paved with mistakes. And those mistakes are never made by Bruce Wayne, the all too human alter ego of the Batman. Snyder goes lengths to show that the hero’s failures and mistakes belong entirely to the costume and not the man beneath it. As the Riddler plans to cripple Gotham and let an impending hurricane flood the city with no functioning security measures due to the blackout, Batman is seen catching up rather than meeting his opponent on an equal state of affairs.

     Zero Year, DC Comic’s reinterpretation of Batman’s origin, is framed up to this point as a set of circumstances that force a young Bruce Wayne to choose between two identities. One supposes a very limited approach to crime fighting (meaning staying as Bruce Wayne), and the other entails becoming an eternal symbol that haunts Gotham into submission and forces it to embrace order (becoming Batman). Now, what will shape this new identity is how Batman/Bruce Wayne relates to Gotham City. DC’s current run keeps Batman’s official origin mostly intact. Martha and Thomas Wayne are murdered in Crime Alley after a mugging gone wrong leaves Bruce a rich orphan. Crime Alley is the “birth place” of the Batman, the place the new life begins and where its traumas make Bruce become a Bat. In this new life Gotham City is Batman’s new father, creating the hero it needed out of the violence the city itself enabled.

 
     Snyder’s Gotham is a dangerous victim as opposed to being another criminal keeping its citizens under the influence of its vices. Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns (1986) falls towards the latter. More directly resembling New York (Twin Towers included), Miller’s Gotham is an accomplice to crime. It reminds an old Bruce Wayne that it needs Batman’s supervision or it will relapse into chaos (which is what happens in the book). Miller’s Batman accepts his responsibility as a psychological necessity that feeds both him and the city. Gotham’s rain, Miller’s Batman says, “is a baptism.” And with it he is born again.

     On the other hand, Snyder’s Batman becomes the city’s savior. He still cannot claim Gotham as his, a thing Miller’s Batman does, but saving it means it will be in his debt. Snyder’s Gotham delves into crime just enough to create the hero it needs and not the other way around. Saving the city, then, becomes a rite of passage that turns Batman into Gotham’s sole keeper. Accepting responsibility for it is one of the ways Snyder’s Batman will soon possess Gotham the same way Superman possesses Metropolis. When the Riddler succeeds at exploding Gotham’s retaining walls, for example, and the ocean’s water floods the city in the middle of a hurricane Batman lays the blame on himself. He let the bomb’s signal jammer get lost in a fight against another villain called Doctor Death. He was too late to solve the riddle. But most importantly, he failed to live up to the symbol, to the bat. Being Batman meant Gotham City would be safe. Failing keeps Batman further away from his connection to Gotham. While destroying the machinery that boosts the explosives’ signal Batman says, “I should’ve listened, Gordon! I should’ve taken the call! There’d be no death! There’d be none of this! It’s my fault Gordon! I saw it wrong! You hear me!”

     In the frenzy of Gotham’s imminent destruction it is important that Batman accept the consequences of his initial failures. They are not final yet. For when he saves Gotham, and Gotham will be saved, his failures will become that which brings Batman and the City closer to each other, creating a sense of dependency that both defines and gives each a sense of belonging. In the end, Gotham will be Batman just as Batman will be Gotham. Gotham created the Batman so it could survive. Batman, when he earns the city, will reshape it in his image so that his new reality, the beginning of the new life, can find everlasting purpose, a justification for continued existence. One cannot exist without the other now. And Batman knows that his life ends when Gotham falls.

El héroe post-9/11: Ex Machina, superhéroes sin capas y el lamento por la caída de las Torres Gemelas

Por: Ricardo A. Serrano Denis

     Todo evento traumático conlleva un periodo de lamentación, de luto y de confusión. Cuando las Torres Gemelas cayeron el 11 de septiembre de 2001 el lamento fue inmediato y vino acompañado de interrogantes dirigidas al porqué del ataque. Una de las preguntas más interesantes que nació de ese lamento, que también surgió tras el ataque japonés a Pearl Harbor, fue el siguiente: ¿cómo se permitió que esto ocurriera? La pregunta sugiere una acusación de negligencia militar. Estados Unidos tenía la tecnología, la malicia, para contrarrestar no solo ese ataque pero cualquier otro que se dirigiera contra la nación. Sin entrar en mucho detalle, la respuesta más o menos corrió por antiguas avenidas discursivas de guerras pasadas. Estados Unidos era un gigante durmiente que el Medio Oriente acababa de despertar. Pero llegar a esa respuesta (la misma que se dio en la Segunda Guerra Mundial) conllevó un tiempo prolongado de lamentación y de luto. Lo mismo pasó en el mundo de los comics.

      Un mes después de la caída de las Torres, Dark Horse, Image, DC y Marvel publican una serie de libros conmemorativos donde sus héroes explican el por qué no pudieron parar el ataque contra las Torres Gemelas. Lo hicieron porque sabían que no podían engañar al lector o ignorar el evento, mucho menos cambiarlo. La mayoría de los héroes de Marvel viven en Nueva York. Spider-Man sólo podía parar el ataque sin mencionar que los Fantastic Four también viven en la ciudad. Pero no ocurrió, y los comics no podían pedir una suspensión tan aguda de la credibilidad de sus historias al hacer que sus héroes interviniesen en los ataques. No quedaba más que lamentar.

      En Amazing Spider-Man #36, escrito por Michael Straczynski, Spider-Man presencia la caída de las Torres. Al bajar a las ruinas, Spider-Man encuentra ciudadanos perdidos, dados al rencor de lo sucedido. De ese enojo nace el cuestionamiento del héroe, de su ignorancia. Spider-Man, contemplativo y derrotado, solo puede decir We didn’t know. Como única alternativa, Spider-Man pasa a ayudar a los policías y a los bomberos. En el proceso se da cuenta de que los héroes reales del evento no son seres con capas ni semi-dioses americanos. Son seres humanos que simplemente hacían su trabajo. Esta va a ser la fórmula de la gran mayoría de las historias conmemorativas del evento. Un héroe clásico reconoce, valida, el heroísmo del hombre común después de lamentar su incapacidad de no poder haber previsto el ataque a las Torres. De la falla del mito sale la validación del nuevo héroe.

 

      Ahora, quizás una de las historias más interesante suscrita a la fórmula le pertenece a Superman. Unreal, escrito por Steven T. Seagle, empieza de forma sencilla: recordándole al lector las habilidades de Superman. Puede ignorar los principios de la física, respirar en el vacío del espacio, volar contra todo sentido de lógica aeronáutica e inspirar a personas comunes a ser más de lo que son. Pero, en sus palabras, “the one thing I cannot do is break free from the fictional pages I live and breath…become real in times of crisis…and right the wrongs of an unjust world”. Estas líneas parecen reafirmar que el destino del héroe americano recae en un acto absoluto de lamentación, sin espacio para la acción o incluso venganza contra aquellos que hicieron de la nación una víctima.

     Es en este contexto que entra Ex Machina (2004-2010) de Brian K. Vaughan y Tony Harris, la historia de un héroe que repensó los límites de su trauma y los convirtió en una reacción de responsabilidad legal. La historia de un héroe que decidió asumir la responsabilidad que Superman nunca se atrevió tocar, la de ser alcalde de su ciudad.

 

     Según Jeff Geers, “the post-9/11 hero is stuck within the disaster (of the Twin Towers), working within the limitations of the system to rebuild and repair it”. De tal forma comienza Ex Machina. El comic cuenta la historia de Mitchell Hundred, un superhéroe que tiene la habilidad de hablar y controlar todo tipo de máquinas. Adquiere el poder tras encontrar un mecanismo extradimensional debajo del Brooklyn Bridge. El mecanismo explota y le da el poder a Hundred. Su origin story se atiene a lo real. Hundred se llama a sí mismo The Great Machine y su disfraz lo hace ver como un piloto. Usa un jetpack para volar. Su presencia en Manhattan crea el mismo debate que persigue a Batman, el de la necesidad de un vigilante que trabaje fuera de los parámetros legales del estado. Pero todo cambia cuando rescata una de las Torres Gemelas el 11 de septiembre de 2001. The Great Machine se convierte en el héroe que el 11 de septiembre nunca tuvo. Antes del evento, en julio 4 de 2001, Hundred se había revelado como The Great Machine y había anunciado su candidatura para alcalde de Nueva York. Los ataques hacen que Hundred regrese a su disfraz. Su intervención eleva su campaña y en noviembre de 2001 es electo alcalde de Nueva York.

     Regresando a Geers, el héroe post-desastre es esencialmente impotente: es incapaz de prevenir el desastre pero tampoco puede corregirlo del todo. En efecto, el héroe se rinde ante las limitaciones reales del ser humano. La narración de Hundred afirma este punto. Hundred dice:
 
     I made it back to Ground Zero ninety minutes after I diverted the second plane…I tried 
     to help everyone who was trapped by the fire. I tried to convince the jumpers to hold 
     on, but…but people don’t listen to the goddamn “Great Machine” the way…Whatever, I 

     tried to catch them, but there were so many. I’m not that fast, not that strong.

     Hundred prefiere recordar su intervención como una fallida en vez de una digna de la figura que representa. El que rescató una de las Torres no importa. El lamento por la que calló es más importante. Por eso Ex Machina sugiere que después de 9/11 parece irresponsable esperar que el superhéroe lo arregle todo. El héroe post-desastre no puede reparar una cultura traumatizada. Su ideal utópico cae ante la realidad de su humanidad. Matthew Wolf-Meyer dice, “superpowered attempts at utopia fail not due to a weakness of the superhero, but because the superhero is basically a representative of conservative social order”. 
 

       Siguiendo lo expuesto por Wolf-Meyer, Ex Machina supone el reconocimiento de un superhéroe que no puede seguir representando el ideal utópico de seguridad continua al que se adscriben los héroes clásicos de Marvel y DC. Al representar un orden social conservador, el héroe tiene que subyugarse a una representatividad mayor encontrada en los mecanismos del estado y en los puestos que lo mantienen funcionando. En efecto, el gobierno es la única máquina fuera del alcance de los poderes de The Great Machine. Por eso el personaje acoge el puesto de alcalde como su nuevo alter ego. Sin él es un ciudadano más y como The Great Machine no puede realizar los cambios que la ciudad requiere. (Por eso, por ejemplo, la guerra que declara Batman contra el crimen es eterna, porque Batman solo reacciona ante el problema, no lo intenta cambiar a un nivel fundamental. Atacar el problema de raíz implicaría que Bruce Wayne se insertara en una posición de poder político. Significaría el fin de Batman.)

      Ahora, Hundred tiene una relación bastante problemática con sus poderes después de ser electo. En uno de los story arcs del comic, Hundred contempla cancelar una protesta anti-guerra convocada para el área Downtown de Manhattan. Después de 9/11 congregaciones sustanciales de gente en un lugar determinado se consideran una situación de riesgo, un posible blanco para un ataque terrorista. Hundred decide no cancelar el permiso. Cabe destacar que Hundred es pintado como un centrista bastante inclinada hacia la Izquierda. Entre las situaciones que desata encuentra el matrimonio de una pareja de bomberos gay, la legalización de la marihuana (que acaba de forma ambigua pero revela que Hundred la fuma) y la censura de una obra de arte que tiene la palabra “nigger” sobreimpuesta sobre la figura de Abraham Lincoln. Cada controversia resulta en una victoria liberal, pero los discursos desenterrados del diálogo gravitan más hacia el centro. Hundred mantendrá que todo es cuestión de balances. Unas libertades no pueden atentar contra otras.

 

      En el caso de la manifestación anti-guerra Hundred sufre la consecuencia de ser un liberal muy utópico. Una bomba de gas tóxico explota en la demostración y muere una cantidad preocupante de manifestantes. El ataque hace eco en las ansiedades que salieron del 11 de septiembre y Hundred ahora tiene que pensar como gobernante en vez de superhéroe. De ese pensar sale el que la ciudad, bajo órdenes de su alcalde, adopte una política limitada de surveillance. Cada estación de tren contiene una cámara digital que identifica posibles sospechosos. Pero el esfuerzo no rinde fruto. Hundred decide retornar a sus poderes como excepción a la regla que él mismo se impuso al ser electo, la de no intervenir como The Great Machine mientras esté en poder. Hundred atrapa al responsable, un residente legal de la ciudad que declara sus intenciones de culminar lo que Hundred interrumpió el 11 de septiembre. Pero el arresto del terrorista resulta en una victoria vacía, una repetición a menor escala del 11 de septiembre. Hundred no previene el ataque, su reacción viene después de la violencia. Tal parece que el espectro de la Torre que no rescató aun persigue a Hundred, estableciendo paralelos entre su incapacidad de prevenir otro ataque y la mentalidad que hizo posible la falta de acción que caracterizó los eventos del 11 de septiembre. La moral de la historia parece ser que después de 9/11 cada acción heroica es seguida por una reacción inversamente destructiva. El comic reafirma la impotencia del héroe y valida su decisión de abandonar el disfraz por uno que más fielmente representa los límites de nuestra humanidad.
 

      En fin, Ex Machina termina siendo la historia de un héroe que sale del lamento post-traumático de la caída de las Torres Gemelas. Sus acciones son medidas por traumas y ansiedades culturales que hicieron del superhéroe americano una víctima más del ataque terrorista del 11 de septiembre de 2001. The Great Machine fue un héroe más que fracasó. Un héroe que aunque responde al lamento de Superman de no poder salir de las páginas a rescatar a su lector reacciona ante la ficción de su condición al elevar su lamento a un nivel de autoridad más problemático. El héroe post-9/11 no tiene capa. Usa corbata y chaleco y es electo por el pueblo. Ahora es parte del gobierno y nace de un mito nuevo que exige que sus héroes sean víctimas perseguidas por las sombras de las Torres Gemelas.

12 Years a Slave: Solomon Northup y la esclavitud en retrospectiva

Por: Ricardo A. Serrano Denis

      Hijo de un esclavo libre. Tal fue la condición de vida de Solomon Northup, hijo de un esclavo libre. La frase parece suscribirse a una idea cruel basada en la suerte. O naces hijo o hija de un esclavo libre, o naces hijo o hija de un esclavo. Todo concepto de libertad, para la población negra de los Estados Unidos en el siglo XIX, parecía recaer en caprichos de buena o mala fortuna. La suerte, entonces, se tornó geográfica en los Estados Unidos del siglo XIX. El Norte estadounidense practicaba una filosofía anti-esclavista problemática, ya que no todo norteño pensaba que el gobierno debía intervenir en los asuntos económicos del Sur. Incluso, el Norte prefería una relación indirecta con el gobierno, delegando por niveles bajos de intervención en el desarrollo de la economía en general. El Norte, a su propia manera, era señalado como engendrador de su propia clase de esclavitud: la del trabajador industrial. Hombre que laboraba en fábricas, moviendo máquinas y empacando mercancía que apenas podía costear.

      El Sur, entonces, se convirtió en el villano de la historia. Esclavista y conservador, el Sur sufrió de muy poca aceptación entre estados dados a la industria ya que suponían una alternativa rudimentaria al capitalismo, una expresión menor. Su carácter conservador mantenía concepciones raciales anticuadas que mantuvieron a miles de hombre y mujeres de tez negra bajo el régimen de la labor forzada. Este es el contexto en el cual se inserta Solomon Northup.

      Proveniente de Nueva York, Northup era un violinista y un granjero de familia con propiedades. Era cercano a ser un ciudadano más entre muchos que no pesaban el valor de su persona dado su color de piel. Nueva York era bastante progresivo en asuntos raciales. Quizás de forma forzada ya que la ciudad de Nueva York nació de una diversidad humana potente que gravitó al área donde se encuentra la ciudad por necesidad, su cultura portuaria responsable por la gravedad de su heterogeneidad.

      En 1841, Northup fue solicitado como violinista por un dúo de músicos de camino a Washington D.C. para seguir su gira musical. Pero los músicos resultaron ser esclavistas en búsqueda de mercancía. Los músicos endrogaron a Northup en D.C. y lo vendieron como esclavo. Fue enviado a New Orleans como mercancía humana donde fue comprado por un dueño de plantación en la región de Red River en Luisiana. Solomon Northup fue esclavo por 12 años. Northup intentó escapar, intentó contactar a su familia por cartas y hasta arriesgó su vida clamando por la simpatía de hombres de influencia en el Sur con la esperanza de que se apiadaran de él y abogaran por su caso de venta como uno ilegal. En efecto lo era. La ley mantenía que ningún hombre negro documentado como libre podía ser esclavizado. Pero los prejuicios de la época y las paradojas del momento aun en el Norte hicieron posible doce años de esclavitud para un hombre libre.

     Northup logró regresar a su familia de forma legal, rescatado por funcionarios del gobierno de Nueva York que abogaron por su caso. Todos eran blancos. Northup pasó a ser una voz paradigmática en la lucha contra la esclavitud y publicó su historia para que futuras generaciones no olvidaran las crueldades infrahumanas de la esclavitud. Bajo otro juego de suerte, en este caso echada en contra de Northup, Harriet Beecher Stowe ya había publicado Uncle Tom’s Cabin, en 1852 (un año antes que la narración de Northup). El libro pasó a ser la narración más leída sobre la esclavitud y hasta eclipsó las memorias de Northup, 12 Years a Slave, que vinieron un año después. Añadiendo sal a la herida, la novela de Stowe era basada en personajes creados por ella. La narración de Northup es verídica y basada en él. Pero fue Uncle Tom’s Cabin el libro que, según Will Kaufman, “sentó las bases de la Guerra Civil”.

      12 Years a Slave se convirtió en una película, estrenada en el 2013. Ha sido nominada para varios premios aparte de los que ya ha ganado. El filme presenta imágenes ya conocidas sobre el trato injusto hacia los esclavos y la mentalidad conservadora del momento que se convirtió en metáfora casi absoluta de la maldad. Madres separadas de hijos comprados por esclavistas, secuencias de latigazos por no cumplir las labores del día a niveles requeridos de casi perfección y tensiones sexuales entre esclavistas y sus esclavas componen la experiencia cinematográfica. Hacen de la esclavitud una memoria entretejida con la identidad de la nación, de su proceso de crecimiento y madurez. Pero más interesante aun, mantienen que las ideas que dieron forma a esa industria permanecen y contemplan la maleabilidad del racismo, su capacidad para adaptarse y seguir relevante como pensamiento.

     La historia de Northup no es de gran conocimiento. No se ha insertado en la cultura popular de la nación. No es de conocimiento común y el filme no parece ser lo impactante que pudo haber sido para la promulgación de sus memorias. Quizás es un caso muy extraño. Muy inusual para ser entendido fuera de lo que conocemos como justicia o derecho humano. Quizás da muy cerca a las heridas cuyo dolor la nación ha intentado suprimir. En todo caso, la historia de Solomon Northup invita a re-contemplar las industria de la esclavitud como una más siniestra de lo ya pensada. Y quizás es en esa contemplación donde nos debemos preguntar en qué medida debemos seguir recordando la esclavitud, y si en efecto es simplemente una memoria lejana o el recuento de un proceso que aún persiste, adaptándose a nuestros tiempos bajo otros pretextos.

Hero Making: A Quick Note on History and Captain America

Ricardo A. Serrano Denis

      Much of the history of the Second World War rests on the idea that goodness prevailed as its moral drive. It came naturally, part of the political package that guided American soldiers to the beaches of Normandy and the treacherous geography of Japan. Rooting out evil was the main objective—evil being the exact opposite of what America stood for. In a sense, the Second World War became a mirror through which Americans could see themselves reflected as the fairest nation of them all. Sure, historical accuracy calls for a reexamination of the Great Depression as the official instigator of intervention in foreign affairs (sometimes overriding Pearl Harbor as the obvious spark to that war), but pick any popular history book on World War II and you’ll be hard pressed to think of any other reason for America stepping up to the Germans other than pure goodness.

      It is of no wonder (and up to this point a meek point to think otherwise) that comic book readers became enamored with superheroes baptized in the fires of World War II as the supreme representatives of their fantastic alternate realities. Of the many that came, it was the one dressed in the colors of the American flag that captured the imagination of readers, Captain America. If we accept the Second World War as iconic in scope regarding World History then we must recognize that it also has the capacity to create icons and legends in its own right, both real and fictional.

     Captain America came out of that war as such an icon. He punched Hitler square in the jaw and might just have well sealed the victory for those who escaped to the pulpy pages of the comic book to find the endings they so intensely desired. Captain America’s war with the Germans was quick, clean, and righteous. But what really made a mark on comic book history was that Captain America set the standard on what heroism should actually be. Most importantly (and most dangerously), it made war experience the absolute standard on what makes a hero, well, a hero.

      It is perhaps in Jason Aaron’s Ultimate Captain America #2 that we get a true look at the psyche of the hero that made war the event that turned men into heroes. Deep inside the jungles of Vietnam, Captain America looks for Frank Simpson, the Captain America of the Vietnam War. Simpson was turned super-soldier for Vietnam in the absence of Steve Rogers (Captain America’s civilian name). But like many, he receded into the madness of his war. He deserts only to resurface as an enemy of the state in 21st century, carrying the full weight of his war to the present.

     The mission becomes an opportunity for introspection, for making sense of a war Rogers did not participate in. Contemplating the jungle and its complicity in keeping Americans away from victory, Captain America dwells on what his country should mean for the men that fight for it. He says:

Looking around this godforsaken place, I could almost understand if Simpson had just snapped. I saw plenty during the war. Good men who just reached their breaking point. I’ve been there myself. I’ve looked that fear in the face. I remember 1944, waking up one morning in the Ardennes forest, freezing cold, knowing we were surrounded on all sides by Nazi Tiger tanks, and I couldn’t move. It took me hours to get out of bed. I could’ve broken then. Like the men I saw eat bullets from their own guns. At the time, I felt like I could almost understand why they were doing it. But flipping sides…Frank Simpson betrayed his country. He said he wanted to show me what America really stands for. But he’s the one who’ll be getting the lesson. America doesn’t stand for cowards and turncoats. Not my America. The America I know’s always been worth fighting for. Even dying for. And sometimes killing for.

      It is brilliantly simple and easy to digest. Captain America lays the blueprint for heroism in pure black and white. It is devotion, with honor, to one’s country and the disposition to kill and die for its safety that makes men heroes. Stray from these guidelines and you will most probably end up being an enemy, a lost citizen fallen from the grace of his country’s innate disposition for goodness. This is but a simple metaphor for how the history of war is digested in popular culture.

     In History, we fight and debate over the origins of war, on the degrees of justness and righteousness in them. We forget that the men that fight them, the ones that become heroes, sacrifice so much that only outsiders get to enjoy the excitement of their heroics in the aftermath. Tom Brokaw’s oral history The Greatest Generation, for example, proves this by going to such lengths as too delve straight into hero making. Brokaw will say the Second World War bred the greatest generation of Americans the history of the country had ever seen. And probably will see, if Brokaw is concerned. The sacrifices of the soldier are secondary to the story because, in the end, they were heroes. Spielberg adds his line with Saving Private Ryan and many other directors, authors, comic book writers and artists followed suit.

 
     And so it goes with history. We seem to unconsciously regard war and its heroics as if they were mythical feats of greatness. They become innocent rites of passage that turn men into Captain Americas. Scars are expected while ugliness and extreme violence are accepted as realities that make men heroes. History, then, becomes the notary. An entity with the authority to make official the transformation of men into heroes. But it also becomes the thing men at war strive to. There is no force as powerful as a people’s expectations. There may be warnings on the dangers of history repeating itself, but that is precisely what people seem to want most of the time. We want more wars because we want more heroes. We want to imagine a world of Captain Americas because without them, well, what’s the point of history?

Camelot in Wonderland: Kennedy, Death, and the Myth of a Better America

By: Ricardo A. Serrano Denis

      Political assassinations often turn complex and imperfect men into saints. Immediately after the killing, the assassin’s victim is purged of his sins and every form of controversy surrounding his foreign and domestic polices become misunderstood attempts at peace and prosperity. An assassination’s anniversary, then, plunges the public down a rabbit hole of memory that leads to a fantasy land where the victim’s lost vision of the future becomes reality. The nation’s current state of affairs is temporarily accepted as a consequence of the figure’s death, no other type of history weighing in on it. Of course it is all imagination, a wish things were the way the deceased leader wanted them to be: better. This is the case of John F. Kennedy, a man taken from the American public as perhaps the greatest president the country had ever seen.

     As the anniversary of Kennedy’s death approaches, American television churns out its traditional barrage of documentaries that portray America as a fatherless nation come November 22nd, 1963. We are reminded that Kennedy was here to save the world and that he signified the last hope for peace to prosper, anywhere. Post-Kennedy America, so it seems, became a nightmare version of itself, nearly post-apocalyptic in scope. Vietnam, segregation, the counterculture, the sexual revolution, and hippies were all things that could have been avoided had Kennedy lived. And all throughout we are left without much space to question whether his presidency was really destined to become the epitome of democracy, the true example of freedom in the world. To this day, it is thought Kennedy left before he could fix everything. That his unfinished presidency meant the country’s destiny was severed from greatness. But history shows that the Kennedy administration, while fashionable and charismatic, meant business as usual. 

     Before that fateful November day, Kennedy had amassed a considerable amount of criticism that came from all sides of the political spectrum. The Civil Rights movement regarded Kennedy an opportunist keeping desegregation on the sidelines for his second term, when it couldn’t hurt his chances of securing another term. Washington hardliners considered Kennedy’s foreign policy as soft after the Bay of Pigs fiasco and weak when Cuba resurfaced as a potential military target come the missile crisis. The argument was Soviet Russia would never have made Cuba a nuclear site had Kennedy taken it during the invasion.

     Others blamed Kennedy for Vietnam and warned that sending military advisors and economic aid to Southeast Asia would be interpreted as intervention and could land America in a war it could not easily win. Kennedy had agreed with Eisenhower’s labeling of Laos as “the cork in the bottle” in regards to it being the instigator of threat in the region. Kennedy partnered with Diem in South Vietnam and went ahead with a policy of limited military action. But all of that dissipated after Dallas, when either a lone gunman from the Dallas Book Depository or a team of assassins shooting from the Grassy Knoll made John F. Kennedy the fourth President to be assassinated while in office.

     As the nation mourned it also began to forget. Kennedy became an idea that should live on as an example future presidents should aspire to, future generations even. His criticisms faded into visions of an incomplete experiment yielding results on American Freedom being the standard of living worldwide. Vietnam no longer became a war Kennedy began in the early years of his presidency. The fact he kept intervention limited meant Kennedy was really just laying the international framework for diplomacy to take over. Instead Vietnam became Lyndon Johnson’s fault, the Southern Vice President turned President after the assassination (maybe landing the role after he had conspired with the assassins to stage a coup d'état should conspiracy theorists have their way). Oliver Stone’s JFK (1991) bases its main argument on this contention. 

     According to the film, the authority of the state over its people resides in its war powers. Stone’s Kennedy, painted as a complete pacifist, wanted to end the war and bring the Cold War to its knees through diplomacy. Assuming war is the organizing principle of American society, a dark government wing set between the military and the White House began to form, to question Kennedy’s commitment to Southeast Asia. Of course, we have to accept war is also the backbone of the country’s economy, the Military-Industrial-Complex Eisenhower warned about. No war meant no economic prosperity and so Kennedy had to be replaced with someone committed to war. Vietnam became the force that pulled the rifle’s trigger. Blame the assassination on war and those who court it. Forget Kennedy escalated intervention in 1962 and approved the Strategic Hamlet Program which involved village internment and the forced relocation of Vietnamese peasantry so Communist insurgents could remain isolated from possible sympathizers. It was only after April 1963 that Kennedy started to voice a desire to extract American forces from Vietnam. He was quoted as saying: “We don’t have a prayer of staying in Vietnam. Those people hate us. They are going to throw our asses out of there at any point.”

     Meanwhile, race relations became another experiment left unfinished. We remember Kennedy signing Executive Order 10925, which required government contractors employ or treat employees equally without regard of race, creed, color or national origin. We forget Martin Luther King, Jr. and his associates (who accused the President of being slow paced with domestic reform) drafted a document that called on Kennedy to enact a sort of Second Emancipation Proclamation that would deal the final blow to segregation, nation-wide, in 1962. Kennedy did not execute that order. The path towards the Civil Rights Act of 1964 ended up being a long and violent one and it was ultimately signed by Lyndon Johnson.

     And yet, Kennedy has captured the hearts and minds of the American public, being that he became what hearts and minds ought to be. Annually, we go down the rabbit hole to a place called Camelot, where royalty is synonymous with the Kennedy name and peace is an idea original to it. Where the United States of America can revel in the make-believe that it was once close to reaching perfection, of being the moral weight on which the world could balance. But once down there, we should ask ourselves whether those visions of a near perfect America are given too freely to a man who was so far from it. John F. Kennedy has become a man out of time. Unstuck in it. He became universal, the light we still hope can shine on darker days. 

     Perhaps it is unfair to judge a man with the full weight of history. Kennedy’s legacy is no doubt unquestionable. He most publicly aided the fight for Civil Rights, prevented a nuclear confrontation with Russia during the Cuban Missile Crisis, initially approved an overhaul of American immigration policy reuniting many foreign families and dismantling the selection of immigrants based on country of origin, and funded NASA’s space program with the intention of putting a man on the moon (in truth this last one came out of a sense of national prestige after the Soviets wounded it by being the first to fly in space, but still). His accomplishments are admirable and deserve remembrance, but they do not constitute an example of political flawlessness. John F. Kennedy is much more complex than he is permitted to be. A man that knew J. Edgar Hoover was wiretapping Martin Luther King, Jr. based on rocky evidence some of his associates were communist sympathizers. A strategist that contemplated pulling out of Southeast Asia only after the Communists acquired the upper hand over the political fate of the region. A politician that can be accused of postponing Civil Rights reform for fear of losing a re-election. In a sense, Kennedy is the great enigma. A figure, a symbol, that guarded his secrets well by hiding them in plain sight. An American icon that should be remembered for every decision he took as Commander in Chief of the United States, so long as he is remembered as an imperfect man.

Because It's Fun: Comics, History, and Knowledge

By: Ricardo A. Serrano Denis

      Imagine you are writing your Master’s dissertation on comic book superheroes and how they uphold the righteousness of the current war against terrorism. You argue that superheroes like Captain America and Nick Fury (apparently his superpower is never growing old) return to their war metaphors, the ones they upheld as heroes of the Second World War and the Cold War respectively, to ask readers to view the present, the contemporary, through their wars. You would say post-9/11 America is too much a grey area of contention and meaning and that superheroes could ease that shade of thought into a simpler yet more dangerous vision of an America still defined by the idea that war is good, fair, and necessary…just like World War II.

      In the process you read comics, a couple of books on historical theory, and actual history books on the wars your superheroes act through. All throughout you constantly feel like an innovator and you realize that in writing history through comic books you are actually having fun! You connect the popular to the academic and it feels like the topic can really resonate within a discipline that holds too dear to traditional primary sources. The kind of history that is being produced cannot be so specifically defined, if anything it might resemble something close to a history of mentalities rooted in the world of 9/11, but it is still an analytical record of what comic book creators and people could have thought on upon reading the comics of that era. Who said old documents and newspapers were the only ways one could reconstruct the past? Aren’t comic books, film, literature, and other works of art representative of their time periods and the things that were contemplated in them?

      So, the dissertation written, you prepare to present your investigation and in comes another realization: what if the academic universe accepts your findings as anything but history? You panic and reread. It comes down to double checking you punched the academic ticket by establishing historiographical precedence, gave your shout out to the classics in cultural theory and discourse and ideology, and included the ever necessary justification on comic books being an actual historical source. Neglecting one of these points can land you in a tough spot when presenting the dissertation, leaving yourself wide open for criticisms that can derail the discussion into areas more traditional than you expected, and sometimes unrelated to the nature of your work. Then you go back to square one and that sense that you created something necessary and spectacular dives into frustration. It becomes an insisting needle in the eye that keeps the investigation outside of academia’s limelight while also questioning its degree of accessibility to a more general public. You wrote this for a university, remember? 

   All of a sudden everything seems far away from fun. Instead the feeling is more akin to being stuck in a sort of limbo that keeps you far from actually contributing to the creation of knowledge, much less it being useful and helpful in understanding the contemporary. Relentlessly, the following question arises: why did you write this? But the answer is simple. Because it was fun.

      The answer is valid. It is also deceiving. Fun is necessary for keeping interest alive in producing any kind of work, but it must be met with the assurance that knowledge can be extracted from the endeavor fun is to reside in. Comic books can balance this necessity just fine. They keep us enthralled in the fantasy that goes with reading about gods and super beings fending off alien invasions, especially if they do so with the force of American history backing them up. In their simplicity we find ideologies that seem innocent but that dig deeper in creating ideas that keep war a rational and often just and necessary action.  And it seems to come casually, not imbued in the seriousness of academic writing. This, evidently, should be studied.

      Matthew Pustz, in his anthology Comic Books and American Cultural History, argues that casual learning (meaning that knowledge can be extracted from more popular productions of fiction given a wider exposure of the product and its appeal) can bring about something we cannot lose sight of: “that the past is worth knowing about and that doing history can be fun.” This is where academic history has trouble keeping up. Somewhere along the road, academic historians lost touch with the possibility of knowledge being popular and common (in the best possible way). And it comes down to a matter of accessibility, something the academic culture is short on. 

     Consider the following situation: the current price for a Captain America or Nick Fury comic book stands between $2.99 and $3.99, much less than the $19.99 and up price range set upon books and academic journals and magazines. The American Historical Review journal, for example, requires paid membership to the American Historical Association which costs $40.00 if you are a student. If you are not a student then prices go up. The journal, as it stands, is published five times a year while comic books publish their continuing stories either biweekly or monthly (almost never outside that timeframe). Accessibility is key in terms of relevance and interest and it seems that comic books here have the upper hand. Academic historians cannot compete in attractiveness and persuasion with beings draped in the colors of the American flag wielding unbreakable shields or beings camouflaged in military fatigues aiming down sights trained on Third World dictators (labeled as such by the characters themselves).

     This is one of those ‘for better and worse’ scenarios. On the one hand we have academic journals too detached from the common reader to become appealing or even be considered as necessary readings in a more general and popular sense. On the other we have comics that too freely justify war (in the cases of Captain America and Nick Fury more intently) and do so in spectacular fashion. The good here is that both are capable of shedding much light on our current military and political predicament. Now, they can do better to up accessibility for a wider range of readers or to be more mindful of the symbols their stories uphold. It can be argued that fiction is not bound to the responsibility of being either pedagogical or informative on the history it uses. And yet readers expect certain degrees of faithfulness to the past and are quite eager to accept it at face value. And writers know this all too well. If anything, it should be noted that with much fun comes great responsibility. 

     In the end it is all a matter of balance, something the academic world is severely lacking. Comic books might use history too loosely, but academic history is too serious about it. And that takes away from its appeal and the possibility of being integrated into the popular arena of the common reader. Academic history cannot remain within the consensus of its tradition in terms of sources and methodology. It will lose readers and remain a thing restricted to the college world, whereas comics are rising in popularity. Superhero stories often become gateways to history much like war movies and historical dramas do. Movies such as Saving Private Ryan became for the history of the Second World War what Gangs of New York became for the history of the city of New York, gateways to common knowledge. Forrest Gump, a favorite amongst history teachers, became the equivalent of a general American history book, over in 142 minutes. The reason why they stay within popular culture and cycle through repeat viewings? Because they are fun to watch. Because, whether we like it or not, we learn from them, casual though the knowledge in them may be. Comic books do the same thing. They introduce readers to history, become gateways to the past. And they let us know that history, while important, can also be fun.