There's this fat kid embedded in 1978, and he's still influencing my life. It's not his fault. He has no idea how his response ripples across the surface of the intervening decades and laps against me. Anyway, he's just doing what he needs to do to survive.
You may be thinking that I shouldn't call him a "fat kid" because putting the "fat" part first defines him by that physical attribute first, and by his humanity second. That's a fair point. And. Unless you're a saint, "fat"
is the first thing you think of when you walk into that third-grade classroom. You see a startlingly round blob with a child in there somewhere, and you don't immediately know which gender that child is. He's the fattest kid in school by a country mile.
The desks are clustered into squares of four for a group activity. The teacher tells the students to discuss a story that the class has been reading. Of course some of the kids deviate from those instructions, as kids will. In the fat kid's group, some of the students start chatting about whatever it is that eight-year-olds would rather chat about.
Watch the fat kid closely. He's really getting into it. He obviously loves the opportunity to socialize with his peers. He's enthusiastically engaged in the conversation for maybe a minute. Then there's a moment when he gets quiet. You can see his face fall. You can see him retreat inside himself.
You may not understand why he shut down. Then again, it may be more obvious than I think. After all, the teacher sure seemed to get it. On his next report card, in the little space for teacher comments, she writes something to the effect of "Hugh seems (very? too?) interested in what the other children are (doing? saying?)." The fat kid knows—or at least he
thinks he knows—exactly what she's referring to. He knows that his teacher thought
that was important enough to put on his report card. As if he needed any more reminders of his shame.
He had been unforgivably stupid. He had let his guard down. He had let himself believe for a moment that he could be friendly—enthusiastic, even—with his peers. He had been thrilled. And then he had felt that creeping wave of numbness that accompanies the realization that he was not wanted. They were rolling their eyes at him. They didn't want him there. They didn't like him, and their most fervent wish in that moment was that he were not there.
There was nothing worse than that feeling. He knew then that he would do anything to avoid it. From then on, he would be alone before he would run the risk of experiencing that icy shame again.
And now I feel a different flavor of stupid. I feel stupid for letting that eight-year-old kid reach through time and influence me so strongly for so long.
I'm framing it wrongly, I know. Again, it's not his fault. He's not "reaching through time". He's just doing what he needs to do to survive. So the question becomes, at what point in the progression from him to me could he/I have broken out of that self-imposed isolation? At what point did I bear the responsibility, as an adult, to take risks that that child couldn't have borne?
Was I responsible during my college years? If so, then boy did I fuck that one up. I went backwards instead of forwards. While visiting my home town, I played exactly two games of Dungeons & Dragons with high school friends, and got spooked at the escapist feel of it. Back at Cornell, I looked around myself and noticed that, whether it was Star Trek or comic books or any other nerddom, there was always someone I could point to and say "They're much weirder than I am." That seemed dangerous. Afraid of my own obsessive nature, I erred on the side of isolation.
Sometime during my twenties, I made a halfhearted attempt to get into "Magic: The Gathering". I went to a gaming night at a local comic shop and found the players to be nasty and cutthroat. I was easily discouraged.
And now, here I am: forty-nine years old, looking back at the stacks of comic books I've bought and adored over the twenty-seven years since I graduated college. And I'm sad to think how I've failed to integrate them into my social life. I have friends and family whom I adore, and I have those stacks scattered about, but there's been virtually no connection between the latter and the former.
During most of those years I pointed to that nerd culture at Cornell to justify my perpetual fear of where my own obsessive personality might lead me within an atmosphere of so few checks and balances. But during the last few years that justification has broken down. I've seen co-workers, who seemed otherwise reasonably functional, going to Comic Con. And I've had this guy named Jeff May in my ears.
Jeff is a Los Angeles comedian and podcaster. He's remarkably similar to me in some ways, such as his love of comic books and his relationship with food. I have an eating disorder, so hearing another man talk openly about sugar addiction and body dysmorphia is like ambrosia to me. Yet in other ways he's unfathomable. Where I internalized the geek/jock divide to such an extent that it took me decades to accept that I could be athletic, he embraced his athleticism from a young age. Where I failed to integrate my love of comic books into my broader life, he's woven his love of comic books into his relationships and his career. And then there's the comedy. I can't begin to imagine having the confidence to get up on that stage. I'm fascinated that a person can be at once so like and so unlike me.
A few weeks ago I found out that Jeff would be at New York Comic Con. Since he seldom gets to the east coast, and I hardly ever get to the west, I set aside time to meet him. As it turned out, I got more time with him than I expected.
On Thursday he kindly let me use his bonus Comic Con pass so I could see the Sideshow Collectibles panel he was hosting. He met me outside, gave me the pass, and led me to Artist's Alley, where I spent an hour boggling at the enormity of the event and fretting about how to behave. "I've got no common ground with artists. What can I say to them that won't sound like the same lame questions they've been asked a thousand times? And hey, these cosplayers are amazing, but what's the etiquette about taking pictures? Should I just ask them?"
Then I attended the panel, which was a discussion between six artists, with Jeff as the moderator. Being there to see it happen live was a delight, as was my conversation afterward with artist Phil Jimenez. Then I gave Jeff his badge back and said goodbye, hoping to see him at his standup gig in Queens on Saturday.
Jeff's a busy guy. He didn't need to take time out for me. Yet, grateful as I was, he seemed at least as grateful to me for my support as a fan. And at some point on Saturday, as I was planning that night's trip to Queens, I realized why his graciousness meant so much to me.
Prior to meeting Jeff, I thought how disappointing it would be if he turned out to be an asshole in person. This didn't seem unreasonable, given all the stories I've heard about fans who met celebrities to their regret. But then, as I prepared to go meet him for a second time, I realized that my underlying fear was much older. I was afraid of reliving that moment in third grade: that creeping realization that "...Oh. He doesn't really like me. He doesn't want me here. He's just being polite."
Silly as it may sound, my taking the train into Manhattan wasn't just the act of a Jeff May fan meeting Jeff May. It was a leap of faith, and a real risk. I was setting myself up for what I swore I'd never let myself feel again.
And then we met, and we chatted, and I saw his standup, which was as delightful as I'd expected. And then we hung out and played pinball, and it was a blast. But more than that... it was
fine.
I was fine. What had I been so worried about? Being an overbearing fanboy? Overstepping my boundaries? Being too socially awkward? It seems that none of that happened. It seems that I just went and had a great time like any normal person might. It seems that... maybe I had no reason to worry?
On Sunday I used Jeff's bonus pass again to spend a few more hours at Comic Con. I got past my awkwardness and had a few gratifying conversations with artists. Then I just roamed the halls and soaked in the glorious cosplay, which led me to the most impactful moment of the weekend.
I wandered outside to an area where some serious cosplayers had room to work. I made my way through the crowd, and then, as a few observers parted ahead of me, I saw a vision that stopped me in my tracks. It was Thundra.
Thundra! My God, Thundra, who tussled with Ben Grimm at Project Pegasus during those halcyon days of
Marvel Two-In-One! My face did all sorts of contortions, and my hand went to my mouth as I struggled to compose myself. Finally I was able to speak, and I said to her "You just stepped out of my childhood."
And just like that... I become a cosplay fan, and started planning my own costume.
 |
| Mama always said, life was like a danger room. |
After nearly three decades of fearing my own nerddom, I spent five hours at Comic Con, and now I want to embrace it again. And in large part I have Jeff to thank for that. He's a goddamn relentlessly humane man: a world-class ambassador to nerddom. I'm grateful to him.
