Thanks to copperbadge for the hat tip.
I started to cry, too—for freaking Bwana Beast, a character about whom, frankly, I could not possibly care less. I ran through my options. I could tell the boy that, hey, in comic books, dead people always come back. It’s a thing. Or I could remind him that it was just a story, that it wasn’t real.
But that cynicism would undercut my secret plan. I am trying to build a good human being here, someone who will make the world better for his presence. Because I don’t know any other way to do it, that means I’m building a little geek. So he can’t know, yet, that death doesn’t really mean anything in comics. I want him to think that these stories have weight, that they mean something; they are our myths. I give my son comics and cartoons and episodes of Thunderbirds because I want him to understand right and wrong, and why it’s important to fight the dark side of the Force. The mantras spoken in this corner of pop culture are immature, but they have power: With great power comes great responsibility. Truth, justice, and the American Way. The weed of crime bears bitter fruit. No evil shall escape my sight.