I quietly shed tears while watching the first Lord of the Rings film—not due to the emotional depth of Peter Jackson’s epic, but because I was utterly lost in the plot. Newly married, I was determined to fit in, enduring the movie at my in-laws’ home, all in the name of being a good companion. The only saving grace was my sister-in-law’s luxurious massage chair, which I commandeered for the entirety of those three-plus hours that felt like an eternity. The delightful vibrations were a worthy trade for pretending to appreciate The Lord of the Rings, but even the soothing sensations couldn’t alleviate the agony of confusion.
Please don’t judge me for my aversion to fantasy. From Star Wars to Game of Thrones, and whatever the latest fantasy sensation may be (which I am blissfully unaware of), I simply do not resonate with these fantastical narratives that seem essential to so many, particularly my peers from Generation X. I acknowledge the intricate artistry behind these franchises and the overarching themes they convey (though I may need a recap on the allegiances), as long as I can avoid engaging with them altogether.
I must have been on a different, rather dull planet when the foundations for Comic Con, cosplay, and the flourishing superhero nostalgia were laid. While my contemporaries seemed to be engaging in elaborate role-play and ensuring their future children would be steeped in tales of cosmic battles from birth, I was captivated by the likes of Molly Ringwald, Alice in Chains, and the literary works of the Brontë sisters—though I find their eldest sibling rather overrated. I read voraciously, and my favorite Christmas film remains Bad Santa. I neither consider myself an intellectual nor an anti-intellectual; I prefer to think of myself as eclectic, though in truth, I’m just too lazy to delve deeply into any single genre. The costumes and intricate worlds of fantasy do not appeal to me; I lack the inclination to understand their allure or narratives. It’s not a conscious choice; it’s instinctual. Instead of a fantasy affinity, I possess a grounded disposition, as dry and unadorned as a shed fingernail.
I seem to have passed this disposition on to my son, Ethan. At age 8, he has shown interest in only one set of animated characters: those from Pixar’s first Cars film, a sensible attachment given his long-standing fascination with vehicles. However, this infatuation faded quickly. Recently, while sorting through his dusty collection of Matchbox cars, he stumbled upon a few Cars toys—once cherished figures like Lightning McQueen and a forlorn Tow Mater—and blushed deeply. “I don’t mind if we get rid of these,” he mumbled.
Toy Story failed to capture his attention, nor did any superheroes or their modern counterparts that have captivated many of his friends. Batman, Spiderman, Captain America—he met them all with a bewilderment that some interpreted as disdain. One of his early teachers described him as “aloof,” concerned that Ethan was too dignified to enjoy dress-up play. While this was peculiar, I couldn’t help but consider the other extreme: a hyperactive child I’ll call “Lucas” who refused to part with his homemade Batman costume even in sweltering heat. Adults found Lucas adorable, nostalgic for their own childhoods. “I’d be Batman all the time too, if I could,” they would reminisce. In light of this, I concluded that both Ethan and I were simply misunderstood.
An old photograph captures a group of my cousins in a playful moment, adorned in makeshift costumes of wigs and bedsheets, all immersed in a home theater performance. Among them, a little girl in a yellow blouse and faded jeans sits apart, her arms wrapped around her knees, refusing to join in. That girl was me.
Two years ago, a similar image emerged on Halloween: Ethan donned merchandise from a professional skateboarder as his “costume.” He began skating at age 6, inspired by his father, the ultimate role model. Beside him, two friends transformed into Flash Gordon and the Joker, all smiles, while Ethan struck a tough-guy pose, as if to say, “I’ll wear a costume when they build a skate park on the moon.” Regardless of our different approaches, the trio remains close, bonding over Minecraft and trading Pokémon cards. These activities, rooted in fantasy, made me think that perhaps Ethan’s interest was simply developing, like a late-blooming tooth.
Yet, I am not convinced he will ever embrace superhero fandom. Earlier this summer, following a teacher’s suggestion to encourage Ethan’s reading, I took him to the library armed with a list of graphic novels from a college friend whose son is now a teenager. These were supposed to be books that an elementary school boy wouldn’t resist. However, many were already checked out. The Batman collection was in demand, as were the Superman titles. I managed to find two Pokémon books and a few Diary of a Wimpy Kid installments, alongside a solitary Spiderman graphic novel.
As we made our way home, I knew Ethan would not touch the comic. While navigating the parking garage and avoiding the unpleasantly odorous elevator, I attempted one last push. “If Spiderman were here,” I suggested, “he would scale the wall and be there already.” Ethan cast a wary glance around, though we were the only ones present. A younger child might have eagerly scanned the area for the web-slinger, but Ethan seemed keen to silence me with a charm that only an only child possesses. “Please don’t say ‘Spiderman’ in public, Mom. It embarrasses me.”
In summary, while fantasy may be a beloved genre for many, it remains a foreign concept for both myself and my son. We find more comfort and connection in our own eclectic tastes and interests, shying away from the fantastical worlds that others cherish. It’s a personal preference, one that doesn’t diminish the artistry or enjoyment that these genres bring to others. For those interested in exploring other methods of conception, consider checking out this informative resource on pregnancy and home insemination.