I’m going to cry when I see the Black Panther opening credits. I’ve told my family to prepare for it, and I have no shame about the emotional eruption I’ll feel when I lay eyes on the cinematic version of Wakanda for the first time. I’ve dreamed of the moment for 20 years, wanting the rest of the world to experience a place I’ve felt has been a home for me.
Since I was 12, T’Challa and the world of Wakanda has inspired me, loved me, and given me a creative outlet when I’ve needed to escape the realities of being a black kid in America. I love the characters as if they were relatives I’ve spent hours on end trading letter with. And it all started when I held my first Black Panther comic in my hand for the first time.
I didn’t quite understand it at the time, but the connection to someone who looked like me in a store full of pictures of white (and purple, and green and anything but black) faces, is why I remember precisely the moment I first grabbed Marvel’s 1998 Black Panther #1 off of the shelf at my favorite comic book shop. I’ve gone on my comic book runs pretty much every Wednesday for 20 years — a thousand trips give or take. But holding Black Panther, written by Christopher Priest, who is black, for the first time is one of a handful of those thousand trips that I can close my eyes and relive. I remember looking at the cover — which is framed in the wall of my home office to this day — Panther scaling a New York City skyscraper, his claws sheathed with light reflecting off of his gold bracelets. He was at once majestic and menacing. A superhero, yes, but, as I’d soon find out, barely. Yes, he fought villains like every other superhero, but what made him unique was that his motivations were political. It was Wakanda First for T’Challa and anyone who threatened his nation could feel his wrath. He was grounded in the simple premise that his country’s well-being came first and foremost, beyond friendships, superhero protocol or even a belief that goodness conquers all. Protecting his people was his ideology, which made him more of a pragmatic figure than, say, a Captain America. If he had to get his hands dirty, he would, and maybe even like it a little bit.
I wouldn’t know how much I needed Black Panther in my life until later or that the stillness of holding the book would be etched in my brain all these years later. I just knew that I was holding something that would stay with me forever.
I didn’t buy Black Panther because I was looking for black representation. I bought it because Marvel was pushing its new Marvel Knights line, where popular creators — director Kevin Smith and superstar artist Jae lee among them — would try to rejuvenate D-level heroes for a new generation. They were soft reboots of then nearly forgotten characters consisting of — believe it or not — Daredevil, The Punisher (via miniseries), The Inhumans and Black Panther. I was vaguely familiar with Black Panther, having seen him in a random episode of the short-lived 1994 Fantastic Four cartoon, but that was about it. But when I held that book, I know what I felt. I felt a familiarity. I felt that I was seeing myself on the page for the first time.
Marginalized people know what representation means. Even when we don’t. Believe it or not, we understand the concept of seeing people who look like us even if we aren’t quite sure what we’re looking at. It’s a feeling of not knowing what has been missing until that thing finally appears in our lives. My son, for instance, at the age of five has the understanding of race that a typical five-year-old posses. Which is to say, he has none whatsoever. Yet he still loves Star Wars’ Finn and has called him “Brown Boy” without prompt or explanation for two years. Whether we’re people of color, women, LGBT folk, disabled and any underrepresented group not listed, we innately notice the void being filled whether we have a tangible cognizance that the void even exists in the first place. And even if we can’t define the feeling, we know the elation of that void being replaced by images of people who look, feel and love like we do.
In fact, I don’t remember reading any books written or drawn by black people as a kid in the ‘90s and the books that starred black characters were mostly mini-series that weren’t ever any good. There was Spawn, whose mature subject matter meant I couldn’t bring it home as a kid. When I got older and read those books, I appreciated them but Todd McFarlane wasn’t exactly James Baldwin when it came to understanding the nuances of black life, though I appreciate the effort. And as much of an X-Men fan as I was — and, really, who wasn’t in the ‘90s? — the Civil Rights allegory of Mutant vs. Human only went so far, especially when the intersection of being black and a mutant was never properly addressed. Characters just never talked about how being black and a mutant was different than being a white mutant, or what even if the sudden appearance of people with new skin colors changed racial dynamics. There was just silence. I loved Storm and Bishop, but, oftentimes, characters are only as representative as their creators. There was always something missing. They didn’t fill the void of representation I didn’t really understand existed.