Keeping It Real: Don’t Judge Us for Our Lack of Fantasy Enthusiasm

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I quietly sobbed through my first viewing of The Lord of the Rings, not because I was touched by Peter Jackson’s epic tale, but because I had absolutely no idea what was happening. Newly married, I was trying to be the good daughter-in-law at my in-laws’ house, determined to fit in. The only thing that kept me from losing my mind was my sister-in-law’s fancy massage chair, which I claimed for the entire three-plus hours. I wouldn’t have traded those buzzing vibrations for anything, not even for some mystical stone in a sword or whatever it is they call it in that dense King Arthur novel that a middle-school friend once forced upon me. It felt like a fair trade to endure The Lord of the Rings while pretending to be engrossed. Yet, even the delightful chair couldn’t make up for the agony of it all.

So, please, don’t hold it against me for not liking fantasy. From Star Wars (all of them—seriously, how do they differ from Star Trek?) to Game of Thrones, and every other hot fantasy franchise that seems to captivate everyone around me (especially my fellow Gen-Xers), I just can’t connect with these otherworldly genres that seem so vital to so many. I appreciate the artistry behind these cultural staples and their universal themes (although, you might need to explain to me who’s on what side), as long as I’m not obligated to watch or read any of it.

I must have been on some uninspiring planet when the foundations of Comic Con, cosplay, and superhero nostalgia took root. Meanwhile, my peers were apparently wielding lightsabers and ensuring their future kids would be born into a world of epic battles between good and evil.

I adore Molly Ringwald, Alice in Chains, and the works of the Brontë sisters—though I find their older sibling a bit overrated—and I’m captivated by the lesser-known biographies of Sylvia Plath. I read voraciously. My favorite Christmas movie is Bad Santa. So, I don’t fit neatly into the categories of intellectual or anti-intellectual. I like to think I’m eclectic, but really, I’m just too lazy to dive deep into any niche. Costumes and complex alternate realities don’t pique my interest. I don’t understand the allure or the storylines. It’s not a conscious choice; it’s just instinct. Instead of a fantasy chip, I possess a reality chip, thin and unremarkable.

And I’ve passed this trait on to my son.

At 8, my son, Max, has only really connected with one set of animated characters: the crew from Pixar’s Cars. This fascination made sense given his early obsession with vehicles, which only fizzled out last year. While sorting through his dusty matchbox cars, he stumbled upon a few Cars characters—a once-beloved Lightning McQueen and a dejected Tow Mater—and blushed deeply. “I don’t mind if we get rid of these,” he whispered.

Toy Story never captured his attention, nor did the superheroes or their modern counterparts that enthrall most of his friends. Batman, Spiderman, Captain America—he’s met them all but reacted with confusion that some interpreted as disdain. “Aloof” is how one of his early teachers described him. She worried that my 4-year-old was too dignified to enjoy dress-up time. It was unusual, sure, but I considered the alternative—a hyperactive child we knew who wouldn’t take off his homemade Batman costume for anything. Rational adults found him adorable. They understood “Brucie,” especially other parents from my generation. “I’d be Batman all the time, too, if I could,” they would say wistfully.

I decided my son and I were simply misunderstood.

An old photo of mine features my fun-loving cousins posing in front of an old house turned makeshift stage, hiding behind creative disguises—wigs, bedsheets, and drawn-on mustaches—everyone hamming it up for a home-theater extravaganza. Except for one child, who ruins the effect: a girl in a yellow blouse and faded jeans, sitting with her hands clasped around her knees, sourly refusing to join in. That was me.

Fast forward to two years ago at Halloween: Max is dressed in the logo merch of a pro skateboarder as his “costume.” He started skating at age 6, taught by his dad, who’s always been his hero. Next to him are his two closest friends, fully transformed into Flash Gordon and the Joker, grinning while Max strikes a tough-guy pose. His expression seems to say, “I’ll don a costume when they build a half-pipe on the moon.”

But none of this matters much; they’re a tight crew. They play Minecraft together and trade Pokémon cards. Undeniably, both activities are rooted in fantasy, so when Max first got into them, I figured it was just a phase, like a late-arriving tooth.

However, I doubt he’ll ever wear the cape of superhero fandom. Earlier this summer, following a directive from his teacher to “keep him reading,” I took Max to the library armed with a list of graphic novels from an old college friend whose son is now a teen. These were supposed to be must-reads for elementary boys, my friend assured me. He was right—most of them were already checked out. All the Batman books were taken. The Supermans were gone. I found a couple of Pokémon books, a few Wimpy Kid installments, and one lonely Spiderman graphic novel.

I checked out the Spiderman book, but I knew before we even got home that Max wouldn’t touch it. In the parking garage, we dodged the pee-soaked elevator and took the stairs to our car. I gave it one last try. “If Spiderman were here,” I said, “he’d just scale the wall and be there in no time.”

Max shot me a weird look. “What?” I asked. “That’s what Spiderman does, right?”

Max glanced around nervously, although we were alone. A younger child might have been hoping for a miracle sighting of the wall-crawler. My son, however, was trying to hush me with that sweet, subtly manipulative look that only an only child can muster. “Please don’t say ‘Spiderman’ in public, Mom. It embarrasses me.”

While fantasy reigns supreme in pop culture, not everyone needs to be swept away by it. Whether you’re a fan or not, it’s all about finding what resonates with you. If you’re interested in exploring more about pregnancy and home insemination, check out this excellent resource: Mount Sinai’s Infertility Resources. And if you’re considering home insemination, you might find this at-home kit useful. For more details on the topic, you can also check our terms here.

Summary

In a light-hearted reflection, the author shares her struggles with fantasy genres and how this aversion has been passed on to her son, Max, who also shows little interest in popular superhero culture. Through anecdotes and relatable experiences, the piece emphasizes the importance of embracing individuality, regardless of societal trends.