The short answer? Hardly.
Everyone is essentially from one of two camps: either you feel comic books are trashy tripe filled with simplistic, overly-muscled super heroes that only appeal to children, o r you feel that comic books are an under-rated, untapped creative medium that puts drama, art, and writing into one enthralling package which takes graphics arts to a whole new level. I am of the second camp. I have been reading and collecting comic books since I was 16. Even then I could tell the writers of the day - Chris Claremont, Alan Moore, Frank Miller, Neil Gaiman - were all either using comics as a vehicle for voicing their opinions on social strife or they were pushing the medium into the realm of literature and high art.
In fact, comics saved my life.
At 16, I was small for my age. I was the quintessential 100-pound weakling who was socially-awkward and smarter than most others in my school. This trifecta made me an easy target for bullying. Coupled with the overwhelming black cloud of depression that ran deep in my family, it's no stretch to imagine that I was suicidal at several low points in my life. Then I discovered comic books.
Yes, I've certainly heard of the popular heroes - Spider-Man, Superman, Batman - but it wasn't until I picked up an issue of The Uncanny X-Men where my eyes were truly opened to the power and the beauty of modern comic books. I honestly had not heard of the X-Men in 1986. Chris Claremont's treatment of these particular heroes was fresh and new to me, never having been exposed to comics that went beyond the good vs. bad battle royale. Here was an author who took the fear of mutants in the Marvel Universe and paralleled that with the racism, bigotry, and social unrest of our time. So, being a social outcast myself, I really took to the X-Men and identified with them. They became my friends, my brethren.
I could have a horrible week being cut down by the finest athletes our public school system can produce, but I could always rely upon and look forward to that Saturday when I get to go to my favorite comic shop and pick up the latest treasures of fantasy and science fiction. Yes, they were an escape for me. And one could argue that I wasted a lot of money and a lot of time with this "trash," but ask yourself, "Does the cost of my comic books surpass the cost of my funeral? Does the time spent 'wasting it away' reading comic books outweigh the time spent by my family and friends in mourning for my loss?" No, comic books provided a treasure that far exceeded all the tea in China: they gave me hope.
They also gave me a sense of direction and purpose. Inspired by the hope and excitement comics gave me, I went on to pursue a career in art with the ambition that, one day, I, too, can give some 100 pound weakling the hope he needs to continue on in life and find a way to survive the war zone we call high school. I have not given up that hope. And I grew. Now over six feet tall and close to double my weight at 16, I am still socially awkward. But that's okay. And though I may not be the artist I intended to be, I am becoming the writer I intend to be. And if I can provide that escape, though temporary, for anyone in need of it, I will gladly keep writing until my last breath.
Thank you: Chris Claremont, John Byrne, John Romita Jr., Alan Moore, Neil Gaiman, Frank Miller, Neil Adams, Barry Windsor-Smith, Jim Shooter, Al Milgrom, Mike Zeck, Stan Lee, Jack Kirby, Arthur Adams, Brian Bolland, Dick Giordano, and hundreds others in the comic industry who toil away in their passions and ignore the nay-sayers that they work in an industry that churns out nothing but "trashy tripe." Thank you, a million times thank you. You saved my life.
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