How San Diego's Comic-Con International Changed My Life
It was a stifling hot summer day outside of San Diego Comic-Con in 1987, and I questioned my choice of wearing a bathrobe and pajamas to the event. I was dressed as Arthur Dent from the BBC series adaptation of “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,” but even with a rubber yellow Babel fish sticking out of my ear, I could hear the teasing.
“Where’d you get your costume, Robin?” a 15-year-old kid asked a younger boy, who was dressed in a homemade version of Batman’s sidekick’s uniform. His words were mean, and I could see the younger boy’s pride in his costume quickly meld into shame and embarrassment.
Anger instantly flowed through my veins. So did fear. I was 15 as well, but in the world outside of Comic-Con, I was often mocked for loving comic books, animation and British science fiction series you could only find at 2 a.m. on KPBS. A small sliver of me was relieved that the insults were aimed at someone else.
“Are those your sister’s underwear?” the 15-year-old laughed at the younger boy’s green briefs. He shoved him. “Are you wearing panties?”
Suddenly, a battle-axe of a woman in Renaissance Faire garb barged over, her green corduroy skirt creating a snapping sound as the fabric whipped around her legs. Her hair was intricately braided with dried flowers and she wore an embroidered corset cinched so tightly that it pushed her ample chest up into the mightest jiggling bosom I’d ever seen.
“Leave him alone!” she commanded, backing the older boy into the wall of the Convention and Performing Arts Center, where Comic-Con was held at the time. The 15-year-old now looked terrified. “What?” she yelled in a deep, powerful voice that shook the windows. “Not so tough now?” Without a word he dashed away, running down to C Street and into the blazing afternoon.
The courtyard erupted with applause from attendees who had seen the altercation. I joined in. She waved us off and hugged the young boy, quietly saying something that made him smile again.
For me, this is what Comic-Con has always been about: heroes.
Back in the 1980s and early 1990s, before the convention changed its name to Comic-Con International: San Diego, and before nerd culture had reshaped popular culture, the world was very different. Many of us kept secret identities, hiding not just our love of geeky hobbies, but other things that would confuse or upset our parents and peers. From exploring new spiritual philosophies to questioning societal norms, it was often easier to keep quiet than be ridiculed for something else in our lives.
For me, the secret wasn’t about being a Wonder Woman fan or having recorded every episode of “Blake’s 7” on VHS. It was being gay. Bashings happened often at the time in San Diego, and the threat of AIDS loomed everywhere; if you came out, the belief was you’d wind up dead in one way or another.
And yet, once I started volunteering for Comic-Con, my life changed. I’d initially done it to get into the convention for free, but it soon became more than that. Among the academics, feminists and just plain social outcasts, I was accepted. Being queer wasn’t any stranger than anything anyone else had going on in their lives; in fact, it made me unique and special.
These men and women became heroes to me. Whether we were dealing with impatient, sleep-deprived fans eager to enter the convention or having dinner among the dude-bros at Dick’s Last Resort in the Gaslamp, I knew they had my back. It felt good, normal, and unlike anything I was experiencing outside of the convention.
That community — a found family that supported me in the same way the X-Men or Justice League supported one another in battle — was what kept me coming back to volunteer each year. They helped create a space where I could be me, and I felt the need to return that gift to other fans, no matter what their interests or orientations.
Many years have passed, and I no longer volunteer with Comic-Con, but I last attended in 2016. I’d hit a creative block while writing my book, “Battle at the Comic Expo,” and was unsure of how to make the antagonist more than just a one-note parody of arrogant comic book creators I’d met over the years.
After hours of walking the halls looking for some kind of inspiration, I saw him: a little boy dressed in a homemade Superman costume that paled in comparison to the elaborate outfits others wore around him. Where he donned a thin red cape, red square-cut swim trunks, and a blue store-bought T-shirt to create the classic costume, others sported highly detailed spandex, leather and metal-armored versions of Batman, Robin, Captain America and Iron Man.
Attendees gathered to take pictures and the young Superman shyly backed away. But then Captain America bent down, picked him up, and let the boy sit on his shoulder. Photos were taken, and that little boy beamed with such joy that it lit up the glass-lined convention center hallway.
In that moment, I found my inspiration for finishing the book. And that boy? I think he found his real-life heroes.
Richard Andreoli grew up in San Diego and worked as a volunteer at Comic-Con as a teenager. He is a writer based in Los Angeles and his new novel, “Battle at the Comic Expo,” is available now. For more information, visit BattleAtTheComicExpo.com.
This article was originally published in the San Diego Union-Tribune.
