Superhero comic books are often stereotyped as poorly written and ludicrously illustrated relics of disposable pop culture. Clearly, the target audience of a comic book is evidenced by the zit cream and videogame advertisements that dominate every other page.  Terms such as “graphic novel” and “sequential art” are employed by fans in a futile effort to lend credibility to their nerdy hobby, but there is no getting around the fact that the colorful tract gripped in their sweaty hands is overloaded with lurid images of buxom, scantily-clad babes and over-muscled men posing in long underwear.  Yet, as an introverted boy whose family moved at least half a dozen times before I reached the age of ten, I found a happy escape from painful reality in comics. 

I commiserated with characters such as Peter Parker (Spider-Man) and Bruce Wayne (Batman), two well-meaning guys who never felt completely comfortable in their “normal” guises.  They were shape shifters able to shed their constraining civilian wear and slip into tacky, insignia-emblazoned uniforms in order to enact their sense of purpose in a chaotic, unfeeling world. I learned quickly that superhero comics, with their “ripped from the headlines” plots, offered escape for freaks, like me, that were thrown into a constant, writhing conflict with their world.  For me, costumed crusaders were a powerful force for carrying out justice: they made use of their special abilities to save the innocent, the underrepresented, and, occasionally, even their own enemies from certain death.  Heroes and heroines, like The Martian Manhunter, Elektra, and the Blue Beetle, tirelessly defended the human race from villains and hordes of weaponized flying saucers piloted by cruel and domineering alien races.  These super-powered vigilantes possessed immense physical and/or mental abilities—yet they typically avoided employing their unusual skills for personal financial enrichment or self-indulgent grandstanding.  Superheroes looked out for us with no strings attached, and, as a geeky kid, I lived vicariously through their oftentimes audacious—yet altruistic—experiences.

Twenty years later, I don’t look at comics as often as I used to.  Nowadays, I am sickened by the endless array of disheartening news stories.  As I sift through internet articles announcing endemic child rape in the Congo, state-sponsored assassinations of Russian journalists who were critical of Putin’s regime, and crass imperialistic endeavors masquerading as missions to “spread democracy around the world,” I am overwhelmed by an utter sense of helplessness.  Depression sinks in when I read how private corporations, such as Halliburton and Dyncorp, are, with little oversight, awarded billions of dollars in military contracts for providing overpriced (and typically shoddy) logistical support for what is shaping up to be a series of endless overseas military campaigns.  Meanwhile,New Orleans is yet to fully recover after FEMA’s pathetic showing post-Katrina. 

I find myself lost when I read news articles that describe a Commander in Chief and an administration of flunkies that are nothing more than bloodthirsty, civil rights-trampling neo-crusaders hell-bent on jumpstarting Armageddon with devastating, genocidal wars in the Middle East. Each time I reach for the news, I take in stories about hawkish (and insane) fundamentalists across the nation that simply cannot wait until the poop hits the fan. They are fed by neoconservative, quasi-religious imperialists working within our own government—whose fingers are just itching to press the nuke button—that have the gall to sanctimoniously rant about the overbearing “threat” of Muslim extremists in Iraq. Is this what the cabal of extreme right wing “intellectuals” mean by a Project for a New American Century: perpetual, military-driven conflagrations to benefit war profiteers’ coffers, while hundreds of thousands of innocents die prolonged and wretched deaths in order to fulfill someone’s batshit-crazy idea of Bible prophecy?  Or is it just greed, and, perhaps, our unwillingness to look beyond the shiny things that now define our hyper-consumer culture?

I throw up my hands.  I feel absolutely powerless.  Where are the superheroes of my childhood?  Where are the beings with amazing abilities that stand up against insurmountable odds as they fight battles—not just for White people, Brown people, Black people, or Jews, or Muslims, or Christians, but for all people?  Where are Wonder Woman and the Green Lantern in our time of greatest need? 

I certainly feel a prevailing sense of nostalgia whenever one of my beloved heroes is transformed into a big-budget, live-action film star.  When I go to the theater to view a comic book movie, I hope for compelling storylines evincing a universal message of hope against the unexplainable evils of the world, and the history of Superman compels my hope. The iconic superhero was created back in 1932 by Jewish-American writer Jerry Siegel and Jewish-Canadian artist Joel Schuster.  For these creative men, Superman wasn’t just strictly kid’s stuff. On the surface, their Man of Steel is an alien from planet Krypton, a humanoid super-being whose strange, otherworldly physiology allows him to absorb energy from our “yellow sun” (as opposed to the Kryptonian solar system’s red sun).  As a result, he is able to leap tall buildings, lift entire mountains, and deflect speeding bullets off of his impervious skin.  By day, he is mild-mannered Clark Kent, a meek and oftentimes self-effacing galoot who pines afterLois Lane, his coworker and esteemed journalist for the Daily Planet News.  However, when civilians are in peril, Mr. Kent miraculously locates a broom closet, rips off his pinstripe business suit, and carries out his civic duty as protector of Metropolis and the entire world. But, a dig into Superman’s mythos reveals an apparent intent: Siegel and Schuster created a symbol of justice that carried strong personal meaning. 

 Siegel and Schuster were well aware of the Nazi oppression of Jews in Germany and abroad, not to mention the rampant anti-Semitism in 1930’s and early 1940’s America.  As if responding to the horrors of the Holocaust, these two men put a contemporary spin on the golem mythology.  Instead of the original mythic sentinel’s animated clay body, Siegel and Schuster’s golem is a near-invincible man of Herculean strength who must try to blend in with his adopted society while ensuring the safety of all peoples.  Like the historical Jew, Superman hides his true identity by masquerading as Clark Kent because he never feels entirely at home in his adopted land.  Othered by an ignorant and racist society, Clark Kent cannot reveal himself as an extraterrestrial life form.  Also, he must remain anonymous so that pernicious enemies are not given the opportunity to find and harm his loved ones.  In spite of these drawbacks, Superman excels at his various skills, and he selflessly shares his gifts with the rest of civilization, irrespective of race, culture, or religion.  He does this simply out of brotherly love and concern for all of humanity. 

            Siegel and Schuster crafted a character of fantastic abilities that signified everything which they, as mere mortals, wanted to do but felt incapable of accomplishing.  As emaciated Jewish bodies were incinerated, or piled up in concentration camps like cords of discarded wood, Siegel and Schuster utilized their imagination to evoke an emblem of righteousness: the Super Golem that could defeat Hitler and provide some kind of explanation as to why God would allow so many innocent people to pointlessly perish.  Somebody had to stop the utter annihilation of an entire race of people, whether it was the United States, or a Supreme Being, or a square-jawed fictional hero in a blue and red bodysuit. And, although informed by specific cultural roots, Superman transcends narrow cultural references—he is the universal symbol standing for justice and protection of the powerless.  At least he was.