Born in a place suffering from neglect and inaction, our hero pushed out into the cosmos, wandering for who knows how long: time moves differently in the void, where hours can be confused with days and months blend into seconds.
He landed in a home maintained by the kind and the gentile. They see the greatness in him, greatness he’s not always comfortable expressing, greatness that oh so often gets confused for something to be feared. Something to be hidden.
But he was embraced, and because he was embraced, he flourished, finding purpose in pantomiming the (oft feared) people he clearly, dearly loved.
These pantomimes became his alter egos, performances with capes and theme songs and catch phrases. He could be anything, so many things, so many people, from a robber or a Barron; a teacher or a taker. Murderer, revolutionary, megalomaniac, messiah…all of the above. You know one of his names. Or two. Or 10.
That was his superpower: he could be anyone while still being everyone.
But that symbol…that symbol was always there. That symbol pulled you back in. That symbol was an eternal reminder of his struggle; a reminder of where he came from and where he should no longer return to. That reminder, always worn prominently, profoundly, proudly, no matter the role.
You can’t run from who you are.
There was a weakness. Every hero has a weakness, right? A mysterious substance that caused pain. Horrible, irreparable pain. And of course, because life is poetic, that weakness was (too often) birthed from whence he came. What surely, sadly felt like home was his weakness; touching this perverted piece of home could kill him.
Maybe this would be how he falls; it certainly kept him from flying time and time again.
But he’s a hero, right? What is a hero without a struggle? How can one fly if they haven’t fallen?
And God, how he flew. Even in his pain, maybe because of his pain, we found inspiration and solace.
He was the best of us, even when he wasn’t at his best.
Death comes for us all, unrelenting, nibbling at the scabs of our unhealed weaknesses until it eventually overcomes us. He could not run from his Doomsday, even if he worked his damnedest to slow it. It was just too much.
It was just too much.
In comics, they always come back. Always. Maybe changed, with new powers, in a new uniform with new hair. But they always, always come back.
Micheal will come back. In fact, he’s already here. Don’t believe me? Just look around.
Look at the characters and actors who are fuller and freer. Characters who are multifaceted and complex and sweet and violent – characters who are really, truly, fully human. And in these characters, with varying uniforms and divergent powers and all kinds of hair, Micheal will come back. Again and again and again.
Micheal will come back.
Superman will live.
That’s the truth, even if it doesn’t feel like justice that he succumbed to the American way.
But then again, what is a hero without struggle? How can one fly if they haven’t fallen?
Fly Micheal, fly; fly up, up, and away.
A proud New Orleanian living in the District of Columbia, Jude Jones is a professional thinker, amateur photographer, burgeoning runner and lover of Black culture, love and life. Magneto and Cyclops (and Killmonger) were right.
Find more of Jude’s writing here.
