When I was nineteen I walked into a 7/11 little knowing that I was about to discover passion. At that time convenience stores, as well as Wal-Marts and grocery stores, carried revolving racks of comic books. An interesting cover caught my eye and I stopped to look. The issue was "Justice League of America" and the story pitted the male superheroes against the female superheroes. I was always a sucker for battle of the sexes storylines, so on a whim I bought it along with the Coke I had initially stopped for. That single act sent me head first down the rabbit hole into a world of fantasy.
I had loved superheroes since I was a small child, but only on TV. "Batman" was a particular favorite of mine as well as the old black and white reruns of "Superman". Each Saturday morning there would be cartoon versions of Spiderman, Aquaman or Captain America. But in our house, comic books tended towards the Disney or Archie variety. Easily read and easily forgotten.
Opening the cover of that first purchased book was like opening a door to discovery. Comic books had matured. While in no way "adult", they were no longer childishly simple either. The superheroes of the 70s and 80s were presented as real people with real problems. They loved and lost, they had doubts and fears. This gave their heroism a special magic because not only did they beat the bad guys, they overcame their own weaknesses as well. Their nobility didn't come from the superpowers they wielded, but from the power of their hearts. This was an intoxicating notion to a confused teenager who felt powerless in her own life. And I loved the camaraderie they had with each other, the sense of family. I wanted more.
I became a collector. On Saturday afternoons you could find me haunting used bookstores, sitting on the floor digging through boxes of back issues. I felt like an explorer searching for treasure. Who knew which hard-to-find issue of "The Avengers" or "The Uncanny X-Men" or "The Fantastic Four" may be lurking in those boxes, waiting to be bought for a quarter? My favorite title continued to be "Justice League of America" and at one point I almost had the complete collection up to that time.
The recession of the 80s hit me hard and I had to make a tough, painful sacrifice. One of the harshest regrets of my life is that I sold my comic book collection. But at the time I felt I had no choice. It was the only thing of value that I owned. I had to give up visiting my special world for a time. In the years that followed, comic books became big business. Specialty shops began springing up and comic books disappeared from local drug stores and food marts. Every used bookseller had a copy of Overstreet Price Guide at his elbow and wouldn't let a comic walk out of their shop without checking on its current value. When extra money again became available to me I tried to restart my collection. But the books I used to find for a quarter are now being sold for three, six or nine dollars each. Too rich for my blood.
I could buy new issues of today's comic books, but I don't. During my hiatus from collecting, Superman was killed in battle. (He was later resurrected). Batman suffered his first true defeat at the hands of an opponent who left him with a broken back. The Flash was killed and his nephew took his place. Batgirl was shot and left a paraplegic. Supergirl was killed and a childlike shape-shifter assumed her identity. Hal Jordan, the Green Lantern, became a psychotic super-villain. The comic book universe still exists but the world I had loved so passionately is gone.
But like any true love, the feeling never completely dies. Each Christmas I put two comic books into my stocking. For old times sake.