Tag: comic books

  • The Villain Who Made Me Think

    The Villain Who Made Me Think

    Have you ever liked a villain more than the hero? Who and why?

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    Have you ever liked a villain more than the hero?

    I have.

    Magneto.

    And I liked him before I ever really knew him.

    I was a boy when I saw Stan Lee being interviewed on television. I couldn’t tell you the program now. I couldn’t repeat the interview. Memory rarely keeps things that neatly.

    But I remember what stopped me.

    He was talking about the X-Men.

    Professor X, he explained, could be seen as closer to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

    Magneto was closer to Malcolm X.

    That was it.

    I needed to know more.

    Until then, comic books had mostly been what comic books are supposed to be when you’re a kid.

    Heroes.

    Villains.

    Costumes.

    Powers.

    Good guys trying to stop bad guys from doing bad things.

    But suddenly someone was telling me there were ideas underneath those costumes.

    History underneath those battles.

    That a fight between two men with extraordinary powers could really be an argument about how people survive in a world that fears them.

    That interview made me an X-Men fan.

    More importantly, it helped make me a serious comic-book reader.

    And when I began reading Magneto, I found something much more complicated than the villain I expected.

    He frightened people.

    He threatened people.

    Sometimes he did terrible things while convincing himself they were necessary.

    I understood that.

    But I also understood something else.

    Magneto believed his people were in danger.

    And he had decided they would never be helpless again.

    That mattered to me.

    Because underneath the helmet, the powers, and all that anger was memory.

    Magneto remembered what happened when people decided another group was different.

    He remembered what happened when different became dangerous.

    And he knew what could happen when dangerous became something people believed needed to be eliminated.

    So when Professor X looked at humanity and saw the possibility of coexistence, Magneto looked at the same humanity and saw evidence.

    That doesn’t make Magneto right.

    I think that distinction matters.

    Understanding someone’s anger isn’t the same as approving of what they do with it.

    Magneto could become the very thing he claimed to be fighting. Protection could become domination. Fear could become hatred. The determination to keep his people safe could become permission to hurt someone else’s.

    But even then, I could never dismiss him.

    Because I understood the question underneath his anger.

    What if they come for us again?

    Professor X believed humanity could become better.

    Magneto wasn’t willing to bet his people’s survival on it.

    One offered hope.

    The other carried memory.

    I know people have discussed the Professor X and Dr. King, Magneto and Malcolm X comparisons for years. I also know those comparisons can become too simple. Dr. King was more complicated than the peaceful dreamer we sometimes reduce him to, and Malcolm X was far more complicated than the angry counterweight history sometimes makes him out to be.

    Real men don’t fit neatly inside comic-book metaphors.

    But as a boy, I didn’t know all of that yet.

    I only knew someone had opened a door.

    Comic books could be about more than heroes defeating villains.

    They could ask questions.

    About prejudice.

    About power.

    About identity.

    About what people owe one another.

    About whether peace requires trust, and what happens when history has given you very little reason to trust.

    I started reading differently after that.

    Maybe I started looking at villains differently, too.

    Because the most interesting villains aren’t necessarily the ones who make us wonder how someone could become so evil.

    Sometimes they are the ones who make us uncomfortable because somewhere beneath everything they have become, there is something we recognize.

    A wound.

    A memory.

    A fear.

    Maybe even a truth.

    Magneto never made me want the villain to win.

    He did something more important.

    He made me understand why the villain believed he should.

    Kyle J. Hayes

    kylehayesblog.com

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    Resources for Hard Times

    If you’re looking for practical help, food support, or community resources, you can visit the Salt, Ink & Soul Resources Page.

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  • What’s a thing you were completely obsessed with as a kid?

    What’s a thing you were completely obsessed with as a kid?

    Daily writing prompt
    What’s a thing you were completely obsessed with as a kid?

    Books.

    That is the easy answer.

    The truer answer is escape.

    Not escape in the weak sense. Not running away because I could not face the world. More like finding a door where no one else had thought to put one. A door hidden in paper. A door stitched into panels of color and speech bubbles, into capes and impossible cities, into heroes who were wounded but still stood up when the moment demanded it.

    I started with comic books.

    They were bright, loud, impossible things. Men and women dressed like thunder. World’s ending every few pages. Cities held together by courage, guilt, grief, and the stubborn belief that somebody still had to do the right thing, even when doing the right thing cost them something.

    I did not know it then, but I was studying.

    I was learning pacing.

    I was learning myth.

    I was learning how pain could be given shape without being named too plainly.

    Then came fantasy.

    Kingdoms. Forests. Chosen ones. Old magic buried beneath ordinary soil. A sword pulled from silence. A child discovering that the world was larger, stranger, and more dangerous than anyone had warned them. Fantasy taught me that reality was not always the deepest truth. Sometimes a dragon was not just a dragon. Sometimes it was fear. Sometimes it was inheritance. Sometimes it was the thing waiting at the edge of childhood, breathing smoke.

    Then came science fiction.

    Stars. Machines. Strange planets. Futures built from the anxieties of the present. Science fiction taught me that imagination could ask hard questions without raising its voice. What makes us human? What do we owe one another? What happens when progress outruns wisdom? What happens when we build new worlds and carry the same old wounds into them?

    I read anything I could get my hands on.

    Anything.

    There was hunger in it.

    Not the kind that complains. The kind that searches cabinets when no one is looking. The kind that learns to make a meal out of whatever is available. I consumed stories that way. Greedy, grateful, half-starved for elsewhere.

    And sometimes, when the book was right, when the room was quiet enough, when the world had loosened its grip on me for a little while, I stopped reading.

    I was there.

    I could see it.

    The dust on the road. The flicker of torchlight. The broken starship wall humming in the dark. The hero’s hand trembling before the final choice. The old mentor already knowing the cost. The enemy not entirely wrong. The child standing at the edge of becoming, afraid to step forward and more afraid not to.

    That was the magic.

    Not that books showed me other worlds.

    But that they made me feel as if I had survived them.

    Now I do not read as much about the world’s other people as I used to. Not because I love them less. Maybe because some part of me finally understood what all that reading had been preparing me for.

    I was not only visiting.

    I was apprenticing.

    Every comic book, every fantasy kingdom, every distant planet was placing a tool in my hand. Teaching me how to build. Teaching me how to listen. Teaching me that a world is not made only of maps and names and invented histories.

    A world is made of longing.

    A world is made of rules and wounds.

    A world is made of what people fear, what they worship, what they hide, what they carry, and what they are willing to lose.

    These days, I am trying to create my own.

    Not because I have forgotten the ones that raised me.

    Because I remember them.

    Because I owe them.

    Because somewhere there may be another child sitting in a room too hot in summer, too cold in winter, holding a book like it is a secret passage out of the life they have been handed.

    And maybe one day, if I do this right, they will open something I made.

    And for a little while, they will not simply be reading.

    They will be there.

    Kyle J. Hayes

    kylehayesblog.com

    Please like, comment, and share

    Resources for Hard Times

    If you’re looking for practical help, food support, or community resources, you can visit the Salt, Ink & Soul Resources Page.

    👉 Resources for Hard Times