Personal Blog
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12th November 2018
Thanks For the Memories Stan!
Growing up impoverished sometimes made me feel as though I were never suitable enough to fit in this world. Although my mother worked tirelessly to provide for us, at times, she could only afford the essentials. Food. Shelter. Utilities. (In that order). So anything outside of that triad was considered excessive.
When I turned thirteen, the universe gave me a break. I had the opportunity to take over a paper route for a friend who no longer wanted to do it. That paper route meant that once a month I would receive a $77 paycheck. Today, that barely covers a dinner date out. At the time though, it was a small fortune for a kid who wasn’t old enough to work full time. So every month I had plans for that money. First, I would take my mother and family out to eat at the local Pizza Hut. I cherished seeing the joy in her eyes knowing that I could treat her and my brothers and sisters without my mother having to spend any of the money set aside for bills.
Secondly, I would walk up to the comic book store the Saturday morning after being paid and buy my monthly copies of Captain America, The X-Men, The Punisher, The Amazing Spiderman, and any other Marvel comics issues that I hadn't yet read. These comics weren’t merely a monthly treat. For me, they were a way to escape my sometimes drab reality. They helped to shape my imagination. But, most importantly, they taught me how to draw by imitating what I saw on those pages. Since I couldn’t afford to attend art school, these comics taught me how to be an artist and a storyteller. In those pages, I was no longer a poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks but an avid participant in the Marvel Universe. Long before the movies brought new fans to this world, I was already intimate friends with Cap, Peter, Logan, Professor X, and all of their adventures.
I can remember friends and family telling me that I was wasting my money by buying comics. They would insist that I should spend what little money I had on something less frivolous. This disconnect even extended to school where some of the other kids would call me “weird” or “a comic book nerd." For a long time, I was left feeling misplaced and misunderstood. I would sit alone in the library and read and reread until I could quote every story line from memory. Most people I encountered didn’t understand the sway that comics had on my life, and that was ok. They had their preferences, and I had mine.
Through all of that strife, Stan Lee was still just a name on the credits page at the time. He was merely the guy who wrote “Stan’s Soap Box” at the end of the issue I was reading. It wasn’t until I watched the movie Mallrats by Kevin Smith, that I was able to put a face to his name. Sure, his image was everywhere, but this was the first time I was able to see the actual man behind the curtain. I could watch his strong swagger as he walked. I could hear his iconic scratchy voice. It was then that he was no longer just an editor at a comic book company, he became like family. Stan was the uncle that I waited anxiously for so that I could hear his fantastic tales of heroes, villains, and morality. That’s why, when I heard of his passing, I couldn’t believe it. It felt like a truck hit me and the news of Stan only rivaled that of the loss of my mother. So while my social media feeds exploded with images of him, and people stating things like “R.I.P.,” and “you will be missed,” I refrained. I needed time to understand and cope with the loss of a man, whom I’ve never known or had the opportunity to meet, yet who changed the course of my life indelibly.
So now I say thank you. Thank you, Stan, for writing in a way that allowed me to see myself differently. Thank you for bringing friends into my life, when I had none. Thank you for teaching me that everyone is different, and that’s a good thing. Thank you for introducing other artists to me and showing me how to appreciate style. Thank you for shaping the lives of countless people like myself. Goodbye Mr. Lee, and thank you for the memories.
“Excelsior”
(Ever Upward)