That suit at least gives him something he doesn’t need to worry about damaging!
And it’s something safe and comforting. Remember that there are other bits of his home planet still around—and they’re trying to kill him. Kryptonite isn’t just a bunch of green meteors to him; it’s his homeland, his ancestral soil, the old country that sent him to America.
And it’s poisonous.
This is a man who really can’t go home again; his home is gone, and any souvenir he might find is toxic.
Any souvenir, that is, except that silly suit he wears.
And then there’s the way he’s treated by the people around him. He’s an immigrant to our planet, and he’s tried his best to fit in, he’s done everything he can to be a good person, a good man, a good American, and how do people react to him?
Well, a fair number of the people he meets are trying to kill him. Everyone from street punks to Lex Luthor feels free to take shots at him, with guns and knives and death-rays, and nobody ever takes that seriously. Yes, they go to jail for robbing banks, or trying to conquer the world without a permit, or whatever, but does it ever occur to anyone to file felony assault charges? These guys punch Superman, they shoot at him, stab him, run cars into him, hit him with missiles and energy beams and giant robot fists, and the cops never even ask him if he wants to press charges. Sure, he’s unhurt, but that’s not the point! He was still assaulted. Someone could ask.
That’s his enemies—but what about his friends? They’re constantly demanding his help, asking to be rescued, inviting him to help out with charity events, but do they ever just suggest a cup of coffee and a chat? Do they respect his privacy? Lois Lane and Lana Lang spend an absurd amount of time and effort trying to find out his “secret identity”—that’s the thanks he gets for saving their lives and admitting to them in the first place that he has a secret identity?
Let’s face it, for the pre-Crisis Superman, most of his alleged friends aren’t so much friends as sycophants. Lois Lane wants him not because she actually knows him, but because he’s the ultimate trophy male—brains and brawn beyond human ken, all in a well-built package. She spends more time trying to blackmail him or spy on him than she does just talking to him.
And Jimmy Olsen isn’t so much a friend as his Number One Fan, basking in the admiration of his fellow nerds because he’s buddies with the demi-god in the blue tights.
The only people who come close to treating Superman as one of their own, rather than as a celebrity, are the other superheroes—and let’s face it, hanging out with a guy who dresses up as a giant bat, or a guy in a Robin Hood costume who puts boxing gloves on arrows, is not exactly a healthy social life. These people are freaks, just as much as Superman himself, even if they can’t juggle asteroids. Clark Kent grew up wanting to fit in, to be the all-American boy; spending time with these weirdos may be better than nothing, but he’s got to feel a little like the captain of the football team forced to eat lunch at the geeks’ table.
Of course, that’s why he has his Clark Kent identity, so he can pretend to be normal—but even there, he can’t be comfortable. He has to worry constantly about giving himself away. If Superman accidentally leaves a palm-print in solid steel, it’s not a big deal; people will just ooh and ah, and it may wind up as a souvenir somewhere, but it’s of no real consequence. If Clark Kent accidentally puts a finger through a desktop, though, that’s a real problem—someone might put two and two together.
As the TV show “Smallville” has repeatedly pointed out, any time he’s out there pretending to be an ordinary human, he’s lying. He’s hiding who he is from his alleged closest friends, keeping secrets from the people he claims to love. That’s got to be rough on a guy who wants, more than anything else in the world, to do what’s right and be loved for it.
So if you ask me, along with everything else, he wears that suit under his clothes to remind him who he is—that he’s never really Clark Kent; he’s the freak, the alien, the Superman, who can’t let himself go for an instant, who can’t trust anyone, who can’t let anyone trust him, who must always be on guard—but who still has the comforting presence of his baby blanket, reminding him that once, as a baby, he did have the unconditional love of a mother, and the calm certainty that he was safe.
I can’t begrudge him that small comfort, I suppose. After all, he’s saved the world repeatedly, and is doing everything he can to make it a better place.
But jeez, I wish he washed that thing more often.
Peter Parker’s Penance
Originally published in Webslinger
Consider two boys.
The first is a lad not yet in his teens who sees his beloved parents gunned down in the street by a petty crook, and who is helpless to do anything to save them.
The second is a teenager whose beloved uncle is gunned down by a petty crook, and who realizes that he could have prevented this by stopping that same man earlier.
By lucky chance, both boys have exceptional abilities. Both swear to fight crime, so that other innocents will not suffer as they have. Both youths train themselves, both equip themselves with a miniaturized high-tech arsenal, both put on lurid costumes, and both go out on the streets, taking the fight to the foe.
Except the first boy becomes a grim avenger, a creature of the night, a humorless, relentless, obsessed crimefighter, so focused on his unending war against evil that even his best friends sometimes doubt his sanity.
And the second becomes your happy-go-lucky, fun-loving, wisecracking, friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, always ready with a smart remark.
How does that work?
Logically, shouldn’t Spider-Man be just as grim and driven as Batman? Or even worse? After all, he really is partly responsible for his uncle’s death, where there was nothing young Bruce Wayne could have done to save his parents, yet there Spidey is, web-swinging happily through the streets and tossing off quips as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Isn’t that a bit, well, heartless of him? What happened to all that guilt, all that angst over his uncle’s death? Is Spider-Man just laughing through his tears?
Y’know, it really doesn’t look like it. It looks like he’s having a fine ol’ time out there. Oh, maybe not when he’s face to face with Galactus, or having the snot beat out of him by the Hulk, but when he’s tackling the sort of street-level thug who killed Uncle Ben he genuinely seems to be enjoying himself. Webbing guns out of their hands, hanging them from lampposts—come on, he’s playing.
That just doesn’t seem right, does it?
But wait! What about when he’s not Spider-Man?
Ah, that’s an entirely different picture. Peter Parker is not exactly Mr. Excitement. In fact, he lives a life of worry and turmoil. It does not look like he’s having fun. He looks miserable. He’s got a gorgeous wife, a glamorous job, a satisfying secret life, but he clearly considers himself a loser.
How’s that again?
Say, what’s going on here?
Let’s leave Spidey for now and look at Batman again for a moment, shall we?
Ah, yes, the Batman. When he’s not obsessively fighting crime, he’s Bruce Wayne, millionaire playboy, majority stockholder in Wayne Enterprises, chairman of the Thomas Wayne Foundation. Envied and admired by most of Gotham City’s upper crust, he’s got it all—looks, money, fame, respect, power.
And he doesn’t care. That’s the thing—“Bruce Wayne” is a front, a role he trots out now and then just to keep up appearances. It’s not who he is; the wealth and glamour is just a disguise, a tool. His real identity is Batman, the avenger, the dark warrior, the humorless obsessive. Wayne Enterprises exists to supply him with the money and equipment he needs to continue his relentless battle against evil. The Wayne Foundation exists to try to cut crime off at the roots by fighting the poverty and injustice that drive people to desperation. His money is just a necessary fuel for his secret life. He has no real family, no love life, no friends as Bruce Wayne; his only friends are people like Alfred, Robin
, Oracle, Commissioner Gordon—his companions in Batman’s war against crime. Everything he does, everything he is, is targeted at his crusade. It’s all he wants, all he lives for. Bruce Wayne or Batman, it’s the same guy underneath, and that’s Batman.
But for Spider-Man, Peter Parker isn’t just a front. Peter Parker is his attempt to have something resembling a normal life. It’s who he really is. It’s who he was before the radioactive spider sank its fangs in him, and who he still wants to be. The child who was Bruce Wayne is gone, leaving only Batman, but Peter Parker was a little more established, a little more certain of his identity, and he’s still Peter Parker, not Spider-Man.
And Peter Parker is generally pretty miserable. He certainly isn’t rich or famous or handsome or successful, like Bruce Wayne…
But—why not?
Why does he consider himself a loser, and behave accordingly?
Before that spider bit him, before Uncle Ben was killed, Peter Parker was on track for a pretty good life. Maybe he didn’t think so, but he was. Really, think about it.
Yes, he was an orphan. Yes, he was a nerd. But so what? That was high school. It wasn’t real life. He had a loving home, even if it wasn’t with his parents, and he had a brilliant scientific mind. His classmates mocked him, but his teachers didn’t—they respected and encouraged him. Science nerds may be looked down on in high school, but ten years later, when the captain of the football team is selling shoes, the nerds are pulling down six-figure salaries from major corporations—or perhaps running major corporations, like Steve Jobs or Bill Gates. The jocks look back on high school as their glory days, but the nerds look back on graduation as the beginning of everything important in their lives.
And maybe Peter Parker wasn’t exactly a ladies’ man in high school, but he did all right. Betty Brant and Liz Allen were fighting over him, for heaven’s sake! Later on a hot blonde named Gwen Stacy adored him, and in the end he wound up marrying a model. A smart, funny, utterly devoted model. As Mary Jane herself put it—face it, Tiger, you’ve hit the jackpot. Clearly, Peter Parker had the right pheromones; even when he wasn’t trying, he attracted women.
And why not? He’s not ugly. He’s smart and witty and modest—what’s not to like?
Brains, family, friends, charm, health—so why didn’t Peter Parker wind up rich and happy?
He tells himself that it’s because he’s just naturally a loser, an unlucky guy, and that the need for Spider-Man interferes with everything else. Uh huh, sure. Being a superhero is such a thankless chore.
Then why does he look like he’s having fun when he’s Spider-Man, and like his puppy just died when he’s Peter Parker?
I’m not buying his explanation. It just doesn’t fit the facts. What really went wrong for Peter Parker, and right for Spider-Man?
What went wrong? Well, first, he didn’t stick with his plan for a career in science. He became a freelance photographer, and even though it was originally intended to be a stopgap to get him through a financial rough stretch, he stayed a freelance photographer. Unless you’re Alfred Stieglitz or Ansel Adams, there isn’t generally a lot of money in that. His plans for a career in the sciences just sort of faded away—he let a few setbacks completely derail him. His excuse was that he couldn’t devote the time to it and still keep up with his responsibilities as Spider-Man.
Oh, come on. Night classes. Part-time work. He’s got the brains, he’s got the contacts—he could do it if he wanted to. He could still go back to it, even now. People expect scientists to be eccentric. Keeping odd hours is entirely within acceptable tolerances, so long as the work gets done. He could do it.
But he doesn’t.
Instead he keeps on working for J. Jonah Jameson and the Daily Bugle even though he knows that Jameson’s an obnoxious cheapskate, and worse. Oh, he’s occasionally made half-hearted efforts to sell his photographs elsewhere, but just as he has with his scientific studies, he gave up far too easily. He’s never tried to study photojournalism, never tried to develop multiple markets for his work the way most freelancers do; instead he just keeps on selling Spider-Man pictures to a man who loathes Spider-Man.
This is clearly self-hatred at work.
As for his love life, he seems to have deliberately sabotaged that for awhile, too. He willfully misunderstood Betty Brant’s concerns, refused to take Liz Allen’s attention seriously, actively avoided meeting Mary Jane for months. Okay, he got Gwen Stacy killed, and that was a genuine piece of horrible misfortune directly related to being Spider-Man, but if anything he was less reluctant with women after that; it certainly wasn’t the start of his romantic failures.
Really, if you look at what he actually does, rather than what he says, it’s clear that Peter Parker is deliberately sabotaging himself in any number of ways. He says it’s all because of Spider-Man, but it doesn’t really look like it. He’s screwing up his own life, and ignoring opportunities to straighten it out.
So why would he ruin his own life?
That’s easy. Why does anyone reject happiness? Guilt.
Peter feels he doesn’t deserve happiness. After all, he let Uncle Ben get murdered, when he could have prevented it. He can’t allow Peter Parker to ever have all the things Uncle Ben wanted for him, if Ben isn’t there to see it. Ben Parker was encouraging him in his plans to study science, so with Ben gone, science is no longer where he’s meant to be. He can’t have the research career that his uncle was guiding him into, because that uncle is gone, and it’s all his fault.
Ben would tease him about girls, and offer him advice, and Ben and May provided his role models of a loving couple, so with Ben gone he can’t have that, either. So he screwed up his love life.
Ben never let him worry about money, even when things were tight, so with Ben gone he’s constantly obsessing about it, even while he’s refusing to find a steady, high-paying job.
Everything Uncle Ben wanted for him, he’s unconsciously rejected. He’s not worthy of it. He’s turned his entire life as Peter Parker into a constant penance.
But on the other hand, there’s one thing he does that’s directly, openly meant to make up for his failure to save his uncle, one step toward making amends, and that’s being Spider-Man. Tracking down criminals, defending the weak and helpless, making the streets of New York a little safer—that’s what he knows he should be doing, so that no other Uncle Bens will die through his failure to act.
And that means that when he’s Spider-Man, the guilt goes away! Because he’s out there doing what he should have done all along. When he’s swinging on a webline, that huge burden is lifted from his shoulders. When he punches a mugger it’s a relief—it’s one more bad guy who won’t kill anyone’s uncle, who won’t threaten Aunt May or Mary Jane. He’s making it right with Uncle Ben.
Of course he feels good when he’s Spider-Man! It’s the only time he’s out from under that crushing weight of guilt. He makes jokes as he fights villains not to disconcert them, but because he is feeling no pain. He feels good. How can he be grim when he knows he’s doing the right thing?
When he’s Spider-Man he’s the fun-loving, happy-go-lucky guy that Uncle Ben wanted him to be.
When he’s Peter Parker he’s the loser who let Uncle Ben die, and who has been suffering for it ever since.
It’s the guilt that makes the difference. Bruce Wayne knows it wasn’t his fault that Thomas and Martha Wayne were murdered; he’s fighting crime not out of guilt, but out of a determination not to see other innocents suffer as he did. It’s obsessive altruism. He’s turned his whole life into a battle against the external evil that destroyed his happy life.
For Peter Parker, though, it is guilt. He let Uncle Ben die, and he’s turned his whole life into penance for that personal failure that destroyed his happy life—and he’s making absolutely sure that he never gets that happy life back. It’s all neurotic compensation for that one careless moment when he let a criminal go free.
Oh, there are times he slips up and enjoys life eve
n when he’s not swinging around New York in his tights. Aunt May and Mary Jane have worked hard to cheer him up, and sometimes it even works for awhile—or at least, he pretends it does, so as not to upset them. But he hasn’t continued his education. He hasn’t looked for work in the sciences. He hasn’t told J. Jonah Jameson to get stuffed, even though he knows perfectly well that Jameson is guilty of attempted murder and other crimes.
(Yes, Jameson has tried to kill Spider-Man, and that’s attempted murder. He’s let his newspaper be used in various possibly-criminal conspiracies. Mr. Jameson, however well-intentioned he may think himself, is not a nice man—and Peter knows it, but continues to work for him.)
Ordinarily, someone as guilt-ridden and self-destructive as Peter might well have wound up dead, in prison, or in therapy by now, or might have simply gotten over it. Mourning is all very well, survivor guilt is a powerful thing, but there comes a time when one should move on, if at all possible.
Peter Parker hasn’t let himself move on. He hasn’t dared serious therapy for fear of revealing his secret identity and endangering those he loves.
Instead, he goes out to play in his tights.
Being Spider-Man has become his escape from guilt, but it’s also how he can keep feeling guilty, and not move on. It gives him a way out when his life becomes unbearable, a way to avoid breaking under the strain. It gives him something other than himself that he can blame for his failures—it’s all because he has to be Spider-Man, so he doesn’t have time to improve his life. The world needs Spider-Man. He can’t attend night school or get an online degree because he has to go fight Doctor Octopus or the Kingpin, and there just isn’t time to do both.
So he tells himself.
But what it really is, is that he can’t let go. Spider-Man is, in a very real sense, all he has left of Uncle Ben. Aunt May has moved on, and Peter could—but deep down, he doesn’t want to.
Because being Spider-Man is fun.
Mind Candy Page 4
