I'm Batman

I was having a conversation with some friends today about crime fighting. The conversation had come to dreams, and I mentioned that I'm usually Batman or some kind of vigilante killing bad guys when I dream. This goes back to my childhood. Fortunately, as an adult, I've learned to tame my instincts for violent justice. However, kids seem to have a harder time divorcing reality from fiction.

Case and point. I remember getting beat up by a group of kids a couple houses from my own in Old Friarsgate (The Gate). I'll try not to overly romanticize this scene. First, I was seven. Second, it wasn't a group of street hardened thugs, but your standard snot-nosed, middle-class smart asses. I had inadvertently aggravated an older friend of a friend of mine. The friend (once removed) attacked, and his siblings helped him as he dog piled me. There were three or four of them, at least one was a girl. Sure, my aggressors were more "Focus on the Family" than the crypts and the bloods, but I felt I was a victim of gang violence nonetheless.

I'd like to mention, as a side, that my Father was watching the entire time that I was being pummeled. Now, you can interpret this as a tough love, what doesn't kill him will make him stronger philosophy. In reality, he probably didn't consider the Brady Bunch to be a serious threat. Regardless, the ass kicking did serve to teach me a lesson in hard reality.

When the shit heads were done roughing me up, I ran home. This was not a sprint of shame, however. I don't give up that easily. On the contrary, I went to my room and got the bat cape my Maw Maw had made for me. I put the cape on, got my mind right, and ran down to where the Seventh Heaven Hooligans were celebrating the spoils of war. I yelled something along the lines of, "I'm Batman Bitches!", and got my ass kicked again.

My Dad watched the second act as well. This time, not only did he not intervene, but he prevented my brother Nick from running to my aid with a baseball bat. Nick brought a sense of practical reality to fighting that I lacked at the time. Never bring a knife to a gun fight, and you should always leave your bat cape at home.

The fictions we observe have a very profound affect on our realities, even in their ineffectiveness. The lesson I learned that day wasn't that Batman isn't real. That's fucking ridiculous. Batman is real. We make him real. I allowed Batman to exist in a very real sense in that fight. So I wasn't disappointed by Batman's absence, but by the ineffectiveness that Batman brought to the situation as a solution. My reality ceased to be a place where Batman could solve my problems, and he took shelter in my dreams. I'm still Batman in my mind, that won't change. I just have to hide my cape.

All in all, I still kinda wish Dad had let Nick go Barry Bonds on those punks.