I quietly sobbed through the first Lord of the Rings movie, not because of the epic story Peter Jackson created, but because I was utterly lost. Newly married and eager to fit in, I sat through it at my in-laws’ house, trying to be a good sport. The only thing that saved me was my sister-in-law’s fancy massage chair. I commandeered that buzzing, vibrating throne for the three hours that felt like an eternity, preferring its comforting sensation to the incomprehensible plot revolving around some mythical sword. My trade-off seemed fair: enduring The Lord of the Rings while pretending to be absorbed in it.
But hey, don’t judge me for my lack of enthusiasm for fantasy. From Star Wars to Game of Thrones and the latest hot new franchise (which I’m sure I won’t even know about), I just can’t connect with these otherworldly genres that seem so pivotal for nearly everyone, especially my Gen-X peers. I genuinely appreciate the intricate artistry and the universal themes—though I might need a refresher on who’s who in the ever-changing alliances—just as long as I don’t have to engage with the content.
I must have missed the boat when the seeds of Comic Con, cosplay, and superhero nostalgia were sown. Meanwhile, my peers were busy introducing their future children to epic battles between good and evil long before they could even walk.
My tastes lean more toward Molly Ringwald, Alice in Chains, Eminem, and the Brontë sisters (though I find their eldest sibling a bit overrated). I read constantly and have a soft spot for quirky biographies, especially those on Sylvia Plath. Bad Santa is my go-to Christmas movie. I’m not an intellectual or an anti-intellectual; I just like to think of myself as eclectic. But really, I’m just too lazy to dive into any one fandom deeply. Costumes and convoluted alternate realities leave me cold. I lack the fantasy chip; instead, I have a reality chip, as dry as a leftover fingernail.
And it seems like I’ve passed this trait on to my son, Max. At 8 years old, he’s only truly connected with one group of animated characters: the crew from Pixar’s Cars. This affinity made sense given his early obsession with vehicles, but it fizzled out quickly. Recently, while sorting through his dusty Matchbox car collection, he stumbled upon some Cars characters and blushed, saying, “I don’t mind if we get rid of these.”
Toy Story never caught his interest, nor did any superheroes that have mesmerized most of his friends. Batman, Spiderman, even the Power Rangers—Max looked at them all with a blend of confusion and disinterest. “Aloof” was the term one of his teachers used to describe him. She worried he was too dignified to enjoy dress-up time. I considered this a refreshing contrast to another child I knew, who would throw a tantrum if asked to take off his homemade superhero costume in the sweltering summer heat.
I felt misunderstood, like a lone wolf in a sea of caped crusaders.
In an old family photo, my fun-loving cousins are dressed in creative disguises, posing for a home-theater performance. Everyone’s hamming it up, except for one girl in a yellow blouse, sitting with her hands clasped, refusing to join in. That girl? Yep, it’s me.
Fast forward to Halloween two years ago, and I have a similar scene. Max is dressed in the gear of a professional skateboarder, his “costume.” Next to him, his two friends are fully decked out as Flash Gordon and the Joker, grinning widely, while Max adopts a tough-guy pose. His expression seems to say, “I’ll wear a costume when they build a skate ramp on the moon.”
Despite our different approaches, this trio gets along well. They bond over Minecraft and Pokémon cards—both of which are steeped in fantasy. So, when Max first became enchanted by these games, I assumed it was just a developmental phase, like a late tooth coming in.
However, I doubt he’ll ever don the mantle of superhero fandom. This summer, following a teacher’s advice to encourage his reading, I took him to the library with a list of recommendations for graphic novels from a college buddy. These books were supposedly irresistible to elementary school boys. Unfortunately, most of the popular titles were checked out, including Batman and Superman. I did manage to find a few Pokémon books and one lonely Spiderman comic.
I checked out the Spiderman book, but I sensed right away it wouldn’t pique his interest. As we walked through the parking garage, I tried one last attempt to spark his excitement. “If Spiderman were here,” I said, “he’d have scaled the wall and be waiting for us.”
Max shot me a look, a mix of embarrassment and annoyance. “Please don’t say ‘Spiderman’ in public, Mom. It’s embarrassing.”
Who knew that a comic book character could cause such a rift?
In conclusion, embracing the world of fantasy isn’t for everyone, and that’s perfectly okay. We each have our own tastes, whether it’s in movies, books, or even costumes.
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