Hi. My name is Nicole and I suffer from the Superman Syndrome.
How did my addiction begin? While other kids spent their Saturdays with cartoons and T-ball games, my father and I traced the veins of the tri-state area's baseball card show circuit. The reward for my hard work was a stack of comics. It was a childhood slightly left of center, I'll admit.
It was also a revolution of the soul. With one issue of Batman, I'd transformed from a snotty, ballet-taking, dress-wearing little girl to a caped crusader. If words were all that were needed to explain this phenomenon, comics would be unnecessary -- that's the catch-22. It's difficult to explain the appeal they hold. The spell isn't cast by Shakespearean dialogue and most certainly not by Picasso-like illustrations. The true grit comes from the hero. The protagonist is endowed with abilities, either a blessing or a curse -- call it what you will. It wasn't as if he or she merely rolled over one day and declared, "Today is the day I will go out into the world to battle evil and injustice." Most heroes were placed into their situations without being asked, without having volunteered. Instead, they are faced with a pivotal decision -- should they use their powers for good or for evil? It is the human condition at it's most extreme.
And it struck a chord inside my four-foot soul. I knew what it was like to be placed unwillingly in an uncomfortable situation. My parents divorced around the time I began reading comics. I remember what it was like to be the last kid in gym class waiting nervously to see what the end result of a family splitting into two teams would be. Having been so close to my father, it only made sense to fill his shoes by protecting my mother and brother. In lieu of a cape, I stole several of his T-shirts. And thus, a hero origin tale began.
My early escapades were limited to the playground. I battled bullies and provided lunches for those who had forgotten them. Whether I actually possessed superpowers or not was of little importance, but I had what I needed to get through the day. As the years passed, the evils of the world unpeeled like an onion, growing denser and more odious as the layers fell. In high school, I was drawn to those in need of saving, be it from eating disorders, abuse, neglect or simply themselves. It was as if I had a spider sense, alerting me that these individuals needed someone. If I could help someone, then the world made sense again.
Every superhero has an Achilles heel. I am deeply crippled by reality. Years of comic books had clouded my perspective. The heroes of the page faced mammoth trials, but those who were good won and even when they lost, it was in a manner that still delivered the final blow to evil. Peter Parker couldn't save Uncle Ben, but he went on to save others. Batman was powerless as his family was killed before his eyes, but he armed himself with fancy gadgets and an awesome car to prevent it from happening to others.
What did I do in the moment of trial? Broke.
Slightly over a year ago, a close friend's boyfriend passed away, quite suddenly. In the face of her grief, I was powerless. I had nothing to offer her, nothing that offered comfort. No words, no solace. All I could do was stand dumbly beside her. For years, I had prided myself on knowing what to say, knowing what to do. Although I couldn't eliminate the problems listed above, I did all I could to aid those I knew who suffered at their hands. This time, there was no monster to battle, only a fact to accept. I walked away from the situation, feeling as if I hadn't having helped her at all.
The axis of my world had shifted. Comic book heroes battle villains with weak spots and agendas. I had tried to battle life, an astronomical feat. Comics had never explained this final step, this separation. Part of growing up is learning which battles are worth fighting and which are worth leaving behind. I had to learn certain battles aren't mine to fight. At a certain point, you have to learn to let people become their own heroes. We are all human, blessed or cursed with abilities of our own. We have our own version of adamantium claws and superpowers. During our lifetimes, we will be placed into numerous situations. In the end, we all earn our capes.
Hollywood has been kind to comic book fans these past few years. I always scan the theater, hoping to see a pigtailed little girl with eyes glazed in delight. What's surprising at these movies is not the response of the children who believe innocently in the power of the hero. It is the response of the adults who know life's troubles but trust in the hero regardless.
There will always be a part of me that believes I am a superhero and that there are others like me. There must be others who suffer from the Superman Syndrome. Little Clark Kents walking through the world with their costume always a button's snap away. Deep inside of all of us, we just want to be the hero. We just want to save the day.
Nicole Signoretta is a Douglass College sophomore majoring in journalism. Her column, "The Nikks Mix," runs on alternating Wednesdays.
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