I sat in silence during my first experience with The Lord of the Rings, not because I was captivated by Peter Jackson’s epic tale, but due to my utter confusion over the plot. Newly wed, I was trying to fit in while watching the film at my in-laws’ home, putting on a brave face. The only saving grace was my sister-in-law’s luxurious massage chair, which I claimed for the entire three-plus hours that felt like an eternity. I’d take the blissful vibrations over the stone in the sword—whatever that was in that dense King Arthur book my middle-school friend insisted I read. Holding onto that amazing chair was my small consolation for enduring The Lord of the Rings and pretending to enjoy it. But even those good vibrations couldn’t ease my suffering.
Don’t judge me because I’m not a fan of fantasy. From Star Wars to Game of Thrones and whatever the latest fantasy franchise is (which I likely won’t even recognize), I just can’t connect with these otherworldly genres that seem so vital to so many, especially my peers from Gen X. While I appreciate the intricate artistry and the universal themes (even if I sometimes struggle to grasp who’s allied with whom), that doesn’t mean I want to engage with them.
I must have been on another planet—one lacking in extravagant entertainment—when the seeds that grew into Comic Con and cosplay were planted. Meanwhile, my peers seemed to be preparing their future children to revel in grand spectacles of good versus evil from the very beginning.
I revel in the works of Molly Ringwald, Alice in Chains, and Eminem, as well as the novels of the Brontë sisters—though I find their eldest sibling overrated—and I enjoy the more obscure biographies of Sylvia Plath. I read constantly. My favorite Christmas movie is Bad Santa. I don’t consider myself either an intellectual or an anti-intellectual. I’d like to think I’m diverse in my tastes, but honestly, I just lack the motivation to dive deep into any specific genre. Elaborate costumes and complex alternate realities leave me indifferent. I don’t comprehend the appeal or the storylines; it’s not a conscious choice but more of a natural inclination. Instead of a fantasy appreciation, I possess a penchant for reality, as dry and small as a shed fingernail.
And I’ve passed that trait to my son.
At just 8 years old, my son, Jake, has only latched onto one set of characters: the crew from Pixar’s Cars. This connection made sense given his early obsession with vehicles, which lasted until last year. But that interest quickly faded. While rummaging through his dusty collection of Matchbox cars recently, he came across some Cars characters—a once-cherished Lightning McQueen and a forlorn-looking Tow Mater—and blushed deeply.
“I wouldn’t mind if we got rid of these,” he quietly said.
He never connected with Toy Story, superheroes, or the modern iterations of heroes that have captivated most of his friends. Batman, Spiderman, Captain America, Transformers, Power Rangers—he approached them all with a bewilderment that some interpreted as disdain. One of his early teachers described him as “aloof.” Educated in the developmental milestones of preschoolers, she worried he was too composed to engage in dress-up play. While this was unusual, I reflected on another child we knew, whom I’ll call “Derek.” This kid would throw a fit if he had to remove his Batman costume, even on a scorching summer day at the splash park. Adults found Derek adorable, a sentiment shared by many fellow Gen X parents. “If I could, I’d be Batman all the time, too, kid,” they would reminisce fondly.
I decided that Jake and I were misunderstood.
An old photograph captures my fun-loving cousins posing at my grandparents’ house, where they’ve transformed a porch into a stage, donning creative costumes made from wigs and bedsheets. They’re hamming it up for a home performance. Yet, one child, with her yellow blouse and faded jeans, stands apart, arms wrapped around her knees, disgruntled and uninterested. That child is me.
Fast forward to last Halloween, where a strikingly similar image exists: Jake dressed in the logo gear of a professional skateboarder as his “costume.” He started skating at age 6, inspired by his dad, who is his biggest hero. Beside him, his two best pals are fully decked out as Flash Gordon and the Joker, grinning widely while Jake strikes a tough-guy pose. His expression seems to say, “I’ll wear a costume when they build a half-pipe on the moon.”
But their different views on costumes don’t affect their bond. These three are tight-knit. They play Minecraft together and exchange Pokémon cards. Of course, both activities are rooted in fantasy, so when Jake first became interested, I assumed it was just a natural developmental phase, like a late tooth coming in.
However, I doubt he’ll ever don the cape of superhero fandom. Earlier this summer, following a directive from his teacher to “keep him reading,” I took him to the library armed with a list of graphic novels recommended by an old college friend whose son is now a teenager. These were supposed to be the kind of books an elementary school boy couldn’t resist. My friend was right, as many of them were already checked out. The Batman series was gone, as was Superman. I managed to find two Pokémon books and a couple of Wimpy Kid volumes we didn’t already own, plus a single Spiderman graphic novel.
I checked out the Spiderman book, but deep down, I knew Jake wouldn’t even crack it open. In the parking garage, we avoided the elevator and trudged up to the seventh level to find our car. I gave it one last effort.
“If Spiderman were here,” I suggested, “he’d just scale the wall and be there already.”
Jake shot me a strange look.
“What?” I asked. “That’s what Spiderman does, right? Climbs buildings and stuff?”
He glanced around nervously, even though we were alone. A younger kid might have been intrigued, perhaps even hopeful for a miraculous sighting of the hero. Jake, however, appeared more concerned with silencing me, employing that sweet yet subtly manipulative charm that is the superpower of an only child.
“Please don’t say ‘Spiderman’ in public, Mom. It embarrasses me.”