Why reading Comic Books awakened my appreciation for ‘true’ literature.

My face was always glued to one of these comics.

My family used to laugh and wonder why a girl could love a comic book so much. They were all ready to grown-up to get the cheesy jokes and the high school love. Archie’s gang was the type of friend every kid would want. Jughead, the skinny kid that ate 200 hamburgers and guzzled 20 milkshakes and who believed girls had cooties. Betty, the girl-next-door who excelled in her classes and always daydreamed about Archie. Veronica, the snotty rich girl who always wore the latest fashion and had every guy wrapped around her finger. Archie was characterized for his carrot top hair and the ink-dotted freckles on his face. You may think that because of their different natures, they could never stay friends. That’s what made each story perfect. Their personalities, their adventures, their conflicts have made this comic book animated with life.

Their colorful lives have an exuberant story.

I could never focus on the bolded words on a plain white page of a textbook. There were no pictures. Where was the color? I remember my mom made me talk to my English teacher after school. My teacher could never understand why I was never interested in the books we read in class. You could tell she was irritated by my lack of focus in her class. She seemed to take an imaginary needle and pop my dream bubble, “Literature isn’t comic books,” she wickedly uttered, “You must read real-life stories with no pictures.” “The world isn’t black and white,” I told her,

“It’s full of color.”

Turn the page… Another dull, gray week came along, and my English teacher assigned my class to read a book. She came around the room and handed us a book. The cover was a brick color and had pictures of boys overlooking city lights. At the top of the cover were bolded yellow words saying, “The Outsiders.” I studied the cover, waiting for a thrill of excitement to read, but nothing came. That weekend I had to put down my Archie comics and force my eyes to focus on bare pages that clothed themselves with only bolded words.

The story was from a boy’s perspective; he was the narrator of his story. The boy’s name was Ponyboy. He narrated in a way that felt like you could grab a casual lunch with him. He never tried to impress, yet wanted to stick with his gang, be like his older brother Darry, and have a spirit like his buddy Sodapop and Johnny. The group was called “the greasers” because of their greasy long hair. They had gang rivals called the Socs who were rich spoiled boys that wore their letterman jackets with pride. Throughout the story, Ponyboy struggled to stay well-behaved, but at the same time gave into the restless adventures with Johnny and wanted to live a carefree life. They snuck out late at night circling the dark dusty streets and sneaking into the late-night movies for free popcorn and cokes. The clock ticked, and my buzzing light flickered, these sounds were in the background because all I could hear now were young boys laughing, shoes kicking up dirt, and the sight of town covered in darkness, all but the streetlamps keeping circles of light for me to pass. As the story ended, I stacked another book on a shelf. Some days I noticed the dusty books that have a gleeful memory.

The books that I touched each page and smiled, the books that I soon had to place on my shelf.

The books gave me words, and I created the pictures.

They told me stories while I filled in the colors.

The books are still vibrant on my shelf waiting for another hand to turn the page.