I got into an argument at the supermarket. This is how volatile our world is right now. It was in the checkout line. My opponent was not only clueless, but pigheaded, refusing all logic. The fact that my opponent is only 9 is no excuse.
“I don’t like Superman,” the little boy said. “He’s kinda dumb.”
At the time I was holding a Superman comic book, along with my other grocery items. They were selling comics in the checkout lane. The elderly lady cashier was just staring at us, arguing.
“You don’t LIKE Superman?” I said. “Everyone likes Superman.”
“I don’t know ANYONE who likes Superman,” said the boy.
“I literally don’t even know who Superman is,” said the boy’s 7-year-old little sister.
This is an affront.
When I was a boy, everyone knew who Superman was. Namely, because Superman was a vital piece of boyhood. While girls were off playing “House,” developing useful life skills such as learning how to balance checkbooks and using EZ Bake ovens, boys were running around in our backyards wearing bath towels as capes.
As a kid, you’d get into these wonderfully dramatic arguments with your buddies over which superhero was best. These topical disagreements usually centered around lesser superheroes like Batman, Spiderman, or Barbara Eden. But here’s the thing: Superman always won the argument. Because—hello?—he was Superman.
My boyhood mind was consumed with Superman. I had Superman pajamas which looked exactly like his costume. I often wore them to school, beneath my clothes. During bathroom breaks I would tear off my civilian clothes and return to class in my heroic get-up. Mrs. Welch would refer to me as “Mister Kent” from there on.
I wore those pajamas every day until there were holes in my little Super Butt. One day the pajamas mysteriously went missing.
“I don’t know where they went,” my mother said. “Maybe I misplaced them.”
I never forgave her for such an irresponsible oversight.
As a boy, I ate, drank, and breathed Superman. A local radio station played old Superman shows every weekday after school. On Saturday mornings, I watched reruns of “Superman” with George Reeves.
George Reeves was a terrific actor, perhaps the most gifted thespian who ever lived. To give you an idea how talented he was: Even though Clark and Superman were indistinguishable in appearance, nobody ever knew Clark and Superman were the same person.
I carried my love of Superman well into my teens. I was a subscriber to Action Comics, which debuted Superman in 1938. I never missed an issue.
My teens were hard years. I went through some very difficult stuff during my youth. We moved a lot. I dropped out of school. We weren’t exactly well-off, fiscally speaking. And to make matters worse, I had red hair.
But no matter how bad it got, I always had Superman.
I knew he wasn’t real, of course. But in a way, he kind of was. And he embodied more than truth, justice, and the American way. Aside from all the other super-powers, he was actually a nice guy.
And believe me, Clark Kent had nearly every superpower known to man—flight, X-ray vision, super strength, heat vision, impenetrable skin, ice breath, superhuman hearing, electricity absorption, super speed, biological longevity, tactile telekinesis, microscopic vision, time travel, and (as seen in Superman #62) super-ventriloquism. And he was STILL painfully humble.
Clark could have been the king of the world. Master of the universe. Had any girl he wanted. Won every high-school football game single handedly. Had his face on Fortune 500 magazine. He could have bullied the entire universe into his will.
But he chose to be nothing. He chose to be anonymous. He chose horn-rimmed glasses. Would that I might be such a man.
Superman’s popularity might have faded from mainstream attention, but I wonder what that says about us. Your modern Marvel-movie heroes are nothing like Supes.
In fact, I’m not sure what your Marvel heroes are even fighting for these days except likes and shares. Not to be critical, but your modern cinematic superheroes are little more than clinically depressed computer-generated underwear models who DON’T EVEN HAVE CAPES.
I placed my comic book on the conveyor belt. The little boy was still unconvinced.
When the elderly lady cashier rang me up, she looked at the comic book and wore an amused smile.
I asked the cashier, “Who do YOU think the best superhero is?”
She thought about it.
“Matthew McConaughey,” she said.