My kid cousin, all of 11 years old, called me up sobbing today. I had about 50 horrifying reasons popping up in my head when he stopped crying enough to ask one question
“Cap’s not Hydra, right?”
A bit of background on why this made sense to me: My cousin was 3 when me and my brother bought him a cute Captain America hoodie. He was 5 when he first caught sight of his dad’s comic collection. He was 8 when he insisted on dressing up as Captain America for a contest at school. He was 9 when he first got bullied and his mom used Captain America as a symbol to tell him to always be kind in strength, to know that he was a better person. He got his Marvel encyclopedia last year for his birthday and every time we meet, me and him have hours long discussions on the characters. His favorite Avenger is Iron Man but he has always been and will always be a Cap’s boy. Steve Rogers has helped him appreciate his own strengths, has helped him understand that being a good person is much more important than being perfect. He got strength from Cap’s stand against bullying, inspiration from Steve’s ability to be kind and caring about the world even in the worst of situations, and most of all motivation to appreciate his own goodness. To him, he was just like Steve Rogers and I’ve seen that kid be so proud of that.
And today he calls me up, shattered and heartbroken, because his ideals, his dreams and convictions of years have been ripped apart. He felt betrayed and lost, because if Cap, his Cap, could be Hydra, a Nazi organization, then did it mean that he was drawing strength from evil all these years?
An eleven year old is questioning his life choices. Nick, still think you’re funny?
My six year old godson is crying in his bedroom right now – his Marvel plastered, Captain America bedsheets and poster covered bedroom – because his hero is a bad-guy and apparently has been all along.
Nick Spencer is such a bad writer that the only way he could think of make his mark on a character like Steve Rogers is to steal the hero from thousands of children.
And if I thought I could find them without having to break out a microscope, I’d gladly do the jail time for punching him in the balls.