My Comic Book Valentine

By: Eric Michael Anderson

It’s all the public library’s fault, you see. My parents would routinely take me to the public library as a child so I could check out books to read. When I was in the third grade in Ames, Iowa, my main reading interest was Hardy Boys mysteries. But one day, in the Ames Public Library, I came upon a large wall-mounted rack (I believe it was in the Children’s section) covered in comic books. Prior to that day, I had never paid much mind to comic books, but that day I found one that intrigued me: Peter Porker, the Spectacular Spider-Ham. At the time, Marvel Comics had a line aimed at younger kids called Star Comics, and Spider-Ham was that line’s flagship title. I checked out the comic, thoroughly enjoyed it, and began using my allowance to buy issues of Spider-Ham that I would find on the spinner racks in the grocery store or drug store. And through the funny-animal versions of the Marvel Universe depicted in Spider-Ham, I became interested in the mainstream Marvel Universe as well.
The next comic to catch my fancy that I checked out from the library was The West Coast Avengers. It was the “West Coast” in the title that got me. I was from the West Coast, land of oceans and mountains, serving an involuntary penance in flat, landlocked central Iowa, so a superhero team from the West Coast. . . well, they must be super-cool! The West Coast Avengers quickly became my favorite comic, and from there I spun off to other Avengers-related titles (by the way, my dad always insisted that I check out two “real books” as well as my comic books).

On Being Awkward…or how I became a “punk”

For as long as I can remember I haven’t fit in anywhere. I still don’t, really, and I probably never will. Part of this is due to the fact that I’m a girl interested in things guys tend to be interested in, rather than things most girls are into. Part of it’s that I’m quiet, and though I’m no longer a mute for all intents and purposes, like I was as a teenager, I’m still pretty awkward around people over the age of 12 (unfortunately most people seem to interpret these characteristics as aloofness/bitchiness). Part of it’s also just fate – my parents. My dad, a once illegal Mexican immigrant who came to this country at 16 with only a sixth grade education, somehow married my mom, a middle-class WASP suburbanite who graduated from Northwestern University. Such a union was bound to create interesting, if not mixed-up, children. Though I can’t speak for my siblings, I know I’m more mixed up than I am interesting. I’m not Mexican enough for the Mexicans or white enough for the whites. The fact that I speak Spanish fluently matters just as little as the fact that I can speak English – it’s strange, really. Throw in my “radical” beliefs like clean living, vegetarianism, atheism, etc., add an early marriage and you get the social pariah that is me.

Memories of “I Refuse”

By: Brian Peterson

1994 was a landmark year in my life.
I graduated from high school and started college, was playing in bands, met some great friends, and in some ways I was coming into my own.
But despite what was propelling me forward, most of the time I felt like I could hardly breathe.
I felt awkward, unsure of myself, and felt like I didn’t belong. I was confused about everything: humanity, God, family, the opposite sex, death, life. Every step led to disorientation. My emotions were a mess because I didn’t know what the hell I felt half the time.
Truth be told I felt this way for quite some time, but everything was intensifying. I was headed toward a crossroads with blinders on.
Hardcore was one of the things that guided me through this tough time. I could identify with the anger, the passion, the rage. I was pissed about a million things right in front of my eyes and a million things I couldn’t even articulate, much less understand.