Reteaching the Fire: On Becoming Batman...Sort Of...

“You cannot stop me—not with wine or vows or the weight of age…”--Batman

I was pretty young when I decided I wanted to become Batman. It was a dream that could only come from a broken child’s heart. I had just turned thirteen and been transported to Duke University Hospital for surgery to try to save my left eye. A week before that I had been accidently shot with a bb gun and had undergone surgery to remove the bb. Now it was time to see if they could save the eye. I recovered over the next week (a week where I learned that the eye could not be saved and I had to make the choice of either having it removed and getting an artificial eye or leaving the eye alone in which case it was possible that it could eventually affect the vision in my good eye—I chose to have the eye removed). My eye bandaged up, and in a kind of pain I never experienced or even imagined was possible, I remember mom and dad carrying me to a bookstore one afternoon. I guess maybe I was well enough to leave the hospital for awhile. Both mom and dad had lost their jobs months before and we were getting food stamps to make ends meet. When I got hurt you can imagine the financial stress they were already under. I can’t even imagine how they coped. And we were poor to begin with, having lost the family farm shortly after I was born to bankruptcy. Mom was even going to school during that time too. Even while at the hospital and doing all the things mothers have to do she managed to keep a GPA of 4.0. Amazing. And she was taking a two year program in only one year to be able to get back to work as soon as possible. I not only only remember the will and courage of both of my parents during that time but I also remember the generosity of so many people in our community, people that donated money to help us stay afloat, help us pay for hotel rooms when I had to be fitted for a new eye, food, gas, and of course, all the endless bills. But I remember that they carried me to a bookstore. I’m not even sure where it was, possibly a mall. And I immediately went to the comic book section. And there on the shelf was a black leather bound book. It was dark and thick. It was Frank Miller’s Complete Batman. I didn’t know who Frank Miller was then. But I knew who Tim Burton was and to this day seeing his Batman on the big screen was the biggest movie experience I have ever had. It was magic. I picked up the book and skimmed the thick glossy pages. It was 30.00. Expensive. But they bought it for me anyway. And even though the doctors said that I shouldn’t be doing any reading because it would strain my eye I sat in bed and read the book cover to cover again and again and again. It was life changing. Something clicked in me for the first time. Something mythic. Something incredibly large. Something elemental.

“The time has come. You know it in your soul, for I am your soul... You cannot escape me. You are puny, you are small, you are nothing--a hollow shell, a rusty trap that cannot hold me. Smoldering, I burn you--burning you, I flare, hot and bright and fierce and beautiful. You cannot stop me, not with wine or vows or the weight of age--you cannot stop me, but still you try. Still you run. You try to drown me out... But your voice is weak.”

I felt a possibility in me that I could become greater than I was. Maybe if I had had enough will and desire I could overcome my injury and help people someday. Now, I guess maybe I thought I actually could become Batman. Looking back I probably did think that. I don’t remember anymore. But I do remember the inspiration Batman gave me during those years when I was relearning how to see (I wasn’t blind as a bat, only half-blind and no depth-perception, which makes what should be simple tasks often frustrating…but I was learning back then and figuring out all the little tricks to help me that I now do without even thinking about it). I think it was then that I first committed myself to my body. I was tall and skinny, not much athletic talent. I think I may have weighed 130 pounds then. But I immediately started lifting weights and running, lots of running. It started out only around the yard and quickly turned into a mile, then two, then three, until my senior year I was running up to thirty miles a week and lifting weights up to two hours a day every day. I also started to read more books. Comics, philosophy, novels. If I thought it was the least bit practical I consumed it. When I graduated high school I was 6’2 and 200 pounds. By then I knew it probably wasn’t possible to become a superhero (although some days…) but what I did know was what Batman represented for me: the 100% commitment to an ideal, the transcendent, the sustained will to achieve something great, something of everlasting value. Batman had become in his mortal and finite quest, everlasting. He had become more. He had transformed a tragedy into something transcendent. I could do that I thought. I’m still trying to do that. Now I’ve lived with one eye longer than I have lived with two. I no longer even remember what it felt like to see with two eyes. Which I still find strange. But I do remember back in that hospital room all those years ago reading Batman: Year One and The Dark Knight Returns and making that silent vow to myself that I would learn to make myself better. That would transcend my circumstances. In many ways I’ve done that. I know I have. But so far I’ve never been satisfied. No matter what I’ve accomplished there is always the feeling that I haven’t done enough. I suppose this is what pushes me. But I’ve also failed in a lot of ways too. I’ve let what others may think about me affect my life. And I can evolve as I need to with nonsense like that floating around in my head. The last three years I’ve basically been retired. The cape and cowl hung up on the wall. Sure, I’m finishing up a Master’s degree and I’ve certainly accomplished something of value in doing that, but something is missing. I don’t feel complete. I feel as though I’ve lost the passion of my youth, the intensity, that fire. As I’ve gotten older I’ve learned a great many things but the one thing that I haven’t always learned is how to cope with the new things I’ve learned, how to adapt. I think that as I learned about myself and the world the more I grew uneasy in it, the more I began to feel afraid of it. The more we know, the more we have to worry about. Ideally we should also be learning ways to cope with our new knowledge, our new lives, our new selves. But this knowledge often doesn’t come and we struggle to show up in our own lives as fully as we might. I know I haven’t. And I know this, which is what makes it hard when I don’t commit myself as I should. I know it could be otherwise. I know what I’m capable of. In many ways I’ve grown and in some ways I am just as raw and hurt as the day I lost my eye. Development is messy. But I’m aware of what I need to do, and that is important I think. Robert Thurman in an email once told me this: “My old Mongolian teacher once told me, after some years of study and practice, “When people ask you about your eye, don’t be embarrassed, just go ahead and say, "I lost one, and gained a thousand!"" You have that opportunity too. So get busy and make your life meaningful by being more wise, (less self-centered), and more compassionate (less selfish), and you will have a far greater life than otherwise.” And he’s absolutely right. Get busy living or get busy dying, no more half-measures. It’s going to take super-heroic effort to make my life a meaningful one, one that sustains my body and soul and heart and helps the world, but for me it’s the only life there is. I’ve always been working towards it even when I wasn’t aware of it. So my task seems to be to find that fire again. Remember the feeling I had when I was young. When things came easy. Sure, it’s different now. But I’ll just have to reteach the fire. Make it burn just as long but with more intensity. And that means back down the curative spiral. Back to the Bat-cave.

As I grow older I’ve realized that the dream changed. I’ve changed. And my commitment to living a meaningful life has sometimes waivered, sometimes lulled, sometimes redoubled its efforts, but the vow always renewed itself. For some reason or another I keep moving forward. I feel like there is a life out there moving towards me just as much as I move towards it. And maybe some day we'll actually meet. Maybe...

Batman has always been the touchstone to renew myself. He is one of the greatest characters in literary history. His own mythology awakes in us our own human potential. Sure, you might say he’s just a character, and you’d be right. But characters have power. They inspire. They create a space for us to imagine our selves better, finer, stronger, wiser. They remind us of our highest natures. We can always make ourselves over. It's never too late to change your life.

Batman is my Sisyphus, my Prometheus, eternally prowling the night on his impossible quest to rid Gotham city of crime. And we all have our impossible quests. But even though it is impossible, even though one day we will die, we have to commit to this world, this time, this moment, and make a difference wherever we are. Batman is my Buddha. He was my Buddha even before I knew who Buddha was. And I suspect he’ll be along for the ride throughout my life time. I can’t imagine my life without him as strange as that sounds. As a symbol, Batman is an organizing point for me. It may sound silly to some and I admit it sometimes does to me too, but I think we all have one character or some token of our childhood that reminds us of that liminal moment, that threshold moment, when one world ended and another began. When we lost some of our innocence, or all of it. For me, Batman was waiting in between those worlds and guided me into the next one. It was a darker world, sure, but it was the real one.

“My parents taught me a different lesson... lying on this street... shaking in deep shock... dying for no reason at all. They showed me that the world only makes sense when you force it to.”

And I learned something too from Bruce Wayne's parents, but more than that I learned from young Bruce. Thanks, Batman. And you too, Frank.