Tag Archives: reading

Comics and Accessibility

Prior to the start of classes this semester, our teachers’ union (AFT Local 1650) organized a Professional Issues Conference (PIC) that all full-time faculty were required to attend. This year’s speaker was Thomas Tobin, who talked to us about Universal Design for Learning (UDL), a concept that aims to make educational materials accessible for people with disabilities and for people who might be accessing information on-the-go, i.e.: let’s talk about not just how people access information via screen readers, but let’s also talk about when and where and why they access information in the ways that they do.

Colleges and universities are facing significant pressure in regard to ADA compliance, and rightfully so. But accessibility for people with disabilities isn’t the only issue in need of addressing. Here is a link to an infographic illustrating demographic information for today’s college students, from the Lumina Foundation (you can read this article about the Lumina Foundation’s foundation if you’re interested; I think the infographic is still useful despite this criticism). In sum, college students are NOT always white, middle-to-upper class, fresh out of high school with lofty dreams and parents footing the bill. We can probably agree on that much: anyone who has walked the halls of a public university, and especially anyone who has been on a community college campus, can attest to the range of ages, ethnic and cultural backgrounds, and expressions of personal identity. However, there are less visible but still apparent differences in lifestyle: some people might be raising children (or siblings), others might be working multiple jobs, some may have arrived in the United States just a few months ago, others might be in temporary housing situations. UDL takes these factors into consideration in addition to making materials accessible for those relying on technology or other assistance because of disability. It’s about reducing barriers. Here’s a video to illustrate:

One thing I was able to do for this semester was to check my syllabus and calendar for accessibility using Word 2016. I also chose an accessible theme on WordPress, meaning that it is flexible and can be viewed on both desktop and mobile devices. I’ve also tested the screen reader on my iPhone (Settings>General>Accessibility>Speech>Speak Screen) by having it read posts to me out loud, which was especially useful. After making sure that my electronic materials were accessible (I am still learning, so if you find something that needs fixing, please let me know!), I created a Google calendar for each class nd embedded it into a page on my site. I’m not sure how accessible these are on mobile devices, but it’s certainly useful to pull up quickly if the paper document isn’t available. One student told me they really appreciated the calendar, so I’m hoping that it’s actually going to be used; if it’s not accessible easily by phone, I’m not sure I’ll put the time and effort into making them in the future.

Despite my best efforts to make these materials accessible, it occurred to me this weekend that traditional text is fairly easy to adapt to devices like screen readers, but texts that rely heavily on images are not so easily translated. We have apps like Audible, or even audio books through the library, that can do the work of seeing words on a page for us and speak them out loud so that we can get information or follow a story. But comics, even when digitized, pair words with images in order to communicate, and the images can be especially significant. Scott McCloud, in his book Understanding Comics, illustrates several types of word/image combinations that writers and illustrators use.

A friend of mine sent me a link to a comic that uses texture to tell a story, and the creator’s hope is that storytelling could happen by way of tactile exploration. This is ultimately what got me thinking about Blankets, by Craig Thompson, which students in my ENG 132 classes read. For traditional novels, a person who is visually impaired or blind would perhaps use the audio book or VoiceOver/other text-to-speech features to listen to the story. With a graphic novel, that doesn’t quite work. There are a number of wordless panels in Blankets, and plenty of panels that use both words and pictures to convey information, particularly subjective information about the characters. How is this information delivered to somebody who is not relying on sight to see and interpret what is on the page? Here’s an example:

This is a wordless panel from the graphic novel Blankets. The image shows Craig and Raina laying together in bed in their pajamas, on top of the blanket that Raina made for Craig. Raina’s eyes are closed, and she is laying in Craig’s lap, holding on to his arm. Craig’s arms are wrapped around Raina, but his eyes are open and he looks uncertain or worried.

You can see my caption below the image. Is that how you would have described the image? What details led you to see Craig and Raina in the way that you did? Can you think of any experiences from your own life that allowed you to relate to the image? Do you see yourself in Thompson’s story (think about recognition as one use of literature we are exploring)? It’s likely that our descriptions of this image would be similar, though they may differ depending on how descriptive we chose to be, or what details stood out to us. If this panel did have words, we’d need to include in our image description whether those words were narration, dialogue, or thoughts that were not said aloud.

Here’s a link to a WordPress page that gives tips for making blog content accessible; one strategy they mention is how to write descriptions for images like the one I’ve used above. WordPress suggests not just describing objectively what is in the image (i.e. two people laying in a bed) but to convey the feeling of the image as well, which I have tried to do in my caption above. However, this is complicated by the fact that interpretation of images is subjective, and unless the author/illustrator has contributed to the alternative text, it’s possible that the story could be lost in translation, or at least mixed up along the way. Think about all of the Bible translations! Scribes put their own twist on the material, and differences of interpretation (which is something Thompson gets at in his book) led to some pretty serious divisions within Christianity. Whose interpretation should we trust? Would my descriptions of the images in Blankets do the story justice? Would my own experiences color my retelling? I imagine they would, just as they influence my teaching.

I will be the first to admit that I am not well-versed in accessibility; I don’t teach online, and I rely on pretty simple and easy to find methods to assist me when I need it. I’ve never had a student who needed accommodations, but I would like to become more knowledgeable so that I can provide that support should the need ever come up. I’d also like to assign material that can demonstrate these needs for other students who may take their sight, or even their ability to access material without logistical complications (language! time! money! patience!), for granted. We’ll spend some time working on writing rich descriptions with some panels from Blankets together to experiment.

Below are links to a few sites regarding comics and accessibility; I’d love to know if you have any feedback or resources to share!

“Digital Comics: Successful, Accessible, and Ruining How We Read Comics?” This article addresses the concept of time in comics, the individual reading experience, and how digital comics may fall short. The title is misleading; the only mention of accessibility is “anyone…anywhere.”

“Enhancing the Accessibility for All of Digital Comic Books” This is an article from a Belgian publication that argues comics “[do] not completely fulfill the needs of a large segment of public such as mobile users, motor-impaired people, and low-sighted people.” The article highlights the physical nature of comic books (they are distributed primarily as paper copies), and in regard to sight only addresses how to make the images viewable to users who have low-sight, not those who are completely unable to see.

Accessible Comics for the Blind by Paths to Literacy links to Comics Empower, an online comic book shop that makes comics accessible using audio.


Uses of Literature: Knowledge

The second of the four uses of literature that Felski outlines in her book is Knowledge. The chapter begins by illustrating two schools of thought regarding what kind of knowledge, if any, can be obtained from literature:

  1. Literature is seen as a semblance, shadow, illusion, or even counterfeit/imitation, in relationship to the world. It is secondary: a representation of reality, but not reality itself. An untruth.
  2. Literature is a reflection: a mirror of reality.

The question of literature’s relationship to knowledge remains open; much will depend, of course, on how we define the act of knowing. In my first chapter, I focused on literature’s potential merits as a guide to self-interpretation and self-understanding. I now turn to what literature discloses about the world beyond the self, to what it reveals about people and things, mores and manners, symbolic meanings and social stratification. Not all texts, of course, lend themselves equally well to such an analytical rubric; my concluding chapter centers on works that actively defy or disrupt our frameworks of social reference. But one motive for reading is the hope of gaining a deeper sense of every day experiences and the shape of social life. Literature’s relationship to worldly knowledge is not only negative or adversarial; it can also expand, enlarge, or reorder out sense of how things are (Felski 83).

In other words, we’re moving from what we can learn about ourselves through literature, to what we can learn about the world. Felski seems to find both ideas above equally plausible, and offers an alternative way of seeing: “Once we relinquish the false picture of a reality ‘out there’ waiting to be found, we can think of literary conventions as devices for articulating truth rather than as obstacles to its discovery” (84). Here, she calls reality a false picture, but seems to favor truth – lower-case-t-truth (multiple truths?) versus capital-T-truth (one truth).

Felski uses the term mimesis, which is defined as imitation: you probably recognize the term “meme.” Memes are repeated images: sometimes the text changes, but because the core image is the same we recognize it and come to understand what it means, regardless of whether or not the text is present. Consider Success Kid. She invites her readers to imagine mimesis as a redescription, which makes sense. Every time a new meme is created with the Success Kid image, it is redescribed. It is not merely a copy, but an interpretive process. I like what she says about truth, quoting Ricoeur:

The world against which we measure the truth claims of the literary text is a world that is already mediated via stories, images, myths, jokes, commonsense assumptions, scraps of scientific knowledge, religious beliefs, popular aphorisms, and the like (84-85).

Put simply, my truth is not your truth, because we each experience the world differently, so we cannot argue for some universal truth or a single reality, as it doesn’t exist. Therefore, literature is by default both truth and untruth, both representation and reflection, both illusion and reality. No matter where it falls on the spectrum here, it can teach us.

Felski introduces metaphor (figurative language – a representation and a reinterpretation, yes?) to the argument next, pointing out that even our use of language is “tangled up with our embeddedness in the world” (86). Basically, language use depends on context, and it both creates and is used to create reality. In the same way, worlds create selves (we are defined by the constraints of the world we live in) and selves perceive and react to worlds (we change and adapt to the world we live in). Language creates us, just as we create it. Felski says next that “what metaphor and mimesis share is the capacity to generate new perspectives, to make possible other ways of seeing, to intensify meaning by dynamically recreating a world already mediated by language” (86).

One gift of literature is intersubjectivity: the ability to share experience across more than one conscious mind. Through literature, particularly through well-written characters, we can come to know specific societies or communities from the inside, as if we were truly a part of that group. We share their inner monologues, their actions, their conversations. At the same time, this can backfire, particularly when characters are not accurately portrayed, leading to misunderstanding and misrepresentation. This is why it is important that people tell their own stories, otherwise someone may speak for you, and they may not do you justice.

Felski uses one of my favorite poets as an example next, Pablo Neruda. She references his “Ode to Things” (one of my favorite poems is “Ode to My Socks”), reminding us that it isn’t just people, or places, or events that one can know as a result of literature; perhaps we should also know the inanimate objects we hold on to in our lives. Poetry, Felski argues, can do that.

Of course, literature can mislead us; it can even offend us. But as Felski says, “literature, by dint of it’s generic status as imaginative or fictional writing, cannot be automatically precluded from taking part in practices of knowing” (103). Though literature, and especially poetry, might be placed in the box or domain of creative writing, it is not without value: literature, according to Felski, is a “form of social knowledge…[texts] fictional and aesthetic dimensions, far from testifying to a failure of knowing, should be hailed as the source of their cognitive strength” (104).

Think about this as we read Rukeyser’s “Book of the Dead.” Felski is talking about literature, but I would argue that much of her argument in this section of her book could apply to poetry. What can poetry do, for us? What good is poetry? What might it accomplish?

Contextualizing BotD, Part 3

Our second class on BotD covered a few shorter sections: Mearl Blankenship, Absalom, The Disease,  George Robinson: Blues. We also read The Doctors. To accompany these sections, two excerpts from a book on the Hawk’s Nest Disaster were provided, one of these is George Robinson’s statement to the court, and the the other is a short interview with the daughter-in-law of Dr. Harless, who treated many of the men who contracted silicosis before he was terminated by Union Carbide. These sections provide further human contact with the incident; in other words, we’re not just getting Rukeyser’s thoughts on what she observed here, but actual statements from the people who lived there, who worked in the tunnel, and in the case of Absalom, we hear from the mother of three boys, the youngest of whom (at age 18) asked that his body be used for research.

In these last sections (Arthur Peyton, Alloy, The Disease: After Effects, The Bill, and The Book of the Dead), we hear more about the court proceedings, and the relationship between water, power, corporations, and people. We are presented with law, with the consequences of a labor disaster carefully curated by a corporation, and a return to The Road in the last section (notice the repeating lines).

I’d like to investigate a few of the names mentioned in the poem, and you may choose to pursue any of these names further for your annotations: Dr. Hayhurst, Dr. Harless, Cecil Jones (and his family), Mr. Marcantonio, Dr. Goldwater, Mr. Griswold.

A newspaper announcement found via a Google search. Note Marcantonio’s accusation.

In the last post, we saw a letter from Nancy Naumberg to Muriel Rukeyser, offering suggestions for what would become BotD. Here is a photograph she took of shacks along the railroad tracks in Vanetta, a community/coal town along the Gauley River. For perspective, here are some images from Google Maps:

This map depicts Gauley Bridge, where the Hawk’s Nest tunnel was dug, Kanawha Falls below that, Alloy to the west, and the New River traveling southeast. The river heading north is Gauley River.

This map depicts Gauley Bridge, where the Hawk’s Nest tunnel was dug, Kanawha Falls below that (mentioned in “West Virginia”), Alloy to the west (“Alloy” is a section of BotD), and the New River traveling southeast. The river heading north is Gauley River.
Nancy Naumberg’s photograph is of a town in Vanetta. As you can see, Vanetta is just north of Gauley Bridge. Alloy, another town mentioned (we didn’t read that section) is to the west. Note the Gauley River National Recreation Area to the northeast, and Summersville above that. Summersville is where the gravesite and memorial is located, and where many of the bodies were taken and buried in unmarked graves prior to being moved to the memorial cemetery.
This map shows the Gauley River traveling through the GRNRA, and to the north is Summersville. That small circle right before the road crosses the river is where the memorial is located.
While people flock to the area now for white water rafting, hiking, and rock climbing, the towns along Gauley River and New River were once coal-mining towns. In fact, you can hike the Kaymoor Trail (if you can handle the stairs) and head down into the mine where you’ll see the processing plant, coke ovens, and town site.

A few major themes we should address (in groups!) in regard to BotD now that we’ve read through the poem in its entirety (mostly):

  • Citizen journalism and authority: who has the authority to speak on an issue? Where does authority come from? Rukeyser was certainly no expert (by certain standards), and yet her work ensured that Union Carbide would be exposed for years to come, despite their efforts (and successes) in minimizing the incident. How do we see citizen journalism at play today? What obligation (if any) do citizens have in witnessing, documenting, and circulating information about events? Are their words just as valid as “experts?” Is there a place for both? Can you think of any examples?
  • Here’s another essay on the same subject. What do you make of this? Were the doctors victims of corruption (in other words, were they victims much like the men who died?), or were they willing participants in the problem? Why? On a similar note, you may recognize the saying, if you aren’t part of the solution, you are part of the problem. What obligation did the doctors have to the workers? To the company? What barriers did they experience to being on the side of the solution? 
  • How does this connect to our own obligation as individual readers, or viewers, of documentation like BotD or the news we encounter on our televisions and social media accounts? What does it take to be part of the solution? What obligation do we have once we have witnessed an event? What barriers do we experience to taking action and/or creating change?


Next time we meet, we’ll be discussing annotations. Here’s what you should be doing before then: think about the sections we read in class, or consider reading the sections we skipped. Look for areas that were especially interesting, moving, or even confusing. Look for places where you needed more information as a reader, and places that stirred a memory of something else (another text, an event, a personal connection) over places that required interpretation. You’ll need to choose one section of the poem that you can annotate. I will show you an example of an annotated poem, and you’ll have time to begin searching for information with my support.

All the Reading I Didn’t Do While Pregnant

The other night, my daughter and I were curled up in my bed reading The Story of the Root Children. This is a picture book from the early 20th century (the author, Sybille Von Olfers, was born in 1881 and lived to just 1916). At 9 years old, this book is well below her reading-level, but the story is magical and thus we keep coming back to it as a reminder of the changing seasons and the life that breathes underground even after everything is frozen. These moments are pretty rare, now that she’s capable of reading books like The Cursed Child on her own, and so when she brought me that book to read even though it was long past her bedtime, I happily obliged.

When my daughter was tiny, I read to her often. There were books everywhere, mostly cardboard, and I made it my mission to teach her from the moment she could talk that words had power, that words appeared on pages alongside pictures, that she could speak them and understand them and share them. We started with the alphabet so that she would learn to recognize the individual letters. We moved on to simple words, like “cat,” and I hoped she would recognize its image even if she couldn’t sound out the letters by themselves yet. Favorite books included Goodnight GorillaThat’s Not My Pirate, and all of Eric Carle’s infamous stories like The Very Hungry Caterpillar and The Grouchy Ladybug. Another story that I loved (and still love) is The Legend of Sleeping Bear; the first time I read that aloud I sobbed through the ending. My heart swelled with pride when she began to imitate my reading aloud. Eventually, her performance turned to actual comprehension, and soon enough, she was reading on her own.

I got pregnant when I was just 21 years old. While some people are married and settled down at that age, I was most certainly not, and as a young woman (who looked even younger than I was), people seemed to think I was absolutely clueless. Maybe they felt pity toward my green Starbucks apron stretched over my growing belly, my messy hair pulled back to expose my stretched ears. I did have one customer bring me diapers and a gift card, a gesture of kindness (not pity) that I will always remember. If you have ever been pregnant, you’ll sympathize with my plight: everyone had advice to share, especially book recommendations. What to Expect When You’re Expecting is practically the pregnancy Bible, and it was shoved into my arms with great excitement. I politely declined, however, and as my pregnancy continued, my heart filled with vitriol toward the entire maternal health care system in our country.

Despite what most people may have seen, or thought, when they saw me, I was not entirely naive. Sure, I had all the wisdom that 21 brings (which isn’t much compared to what I know now in my thirties), but I also had community. Ever since dial-up internet was a thing, I had found places for myself online, a means of connecting with others who shared aspects of my own identity. I embraced email, forums, and blogging. At that time, I was an avid Livejournal user, and had joined a due date community for women who were expecting in July of 2007. Livejournal works similarly to Reddit, in that you can participate in communities, but it is different in that you also maintain a blog of your own that can be customized, like Tumblr. You can also create a profile where interests function like tags, and you can build a friends list of people you follow, and people who follow you back. Like Facebook, your Livejournal posts could be set to public or private. Though I had started out seeing an OB-GYN for prenatal care, frustration with that provider led me to consider the nurse-midwives through Planned Parenthood, who I saw until 33 weeks into my pregnancy. At that point, thanks to research I had done through Livejournal and a post with photos of a homebirth in an apartment, I switched care to a homebirth midwife and a doula. Naturally, this decision was met with criticism, but I felt confident that the information I had gathered online was sufficient and proceeded with my plans to give birth in my own living room.

Through the connections I had made online, I also discovered a different library of books about pregnancy and raising children. Ina May Gaskin became my new literary hero, with books like Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth and Spiritual Midwifery. While What to Expect When You’re Expecting covers various questions about nutrition and safety, as well as a traditional hospital birth experience, it felt sterile compared to the vibrant storytelling in Ina May’s books. Perhaps most important, Ina May’s books had pictures of actual women in actual labor birthing their actual children. No staged or hand-drawn images there. And that, ultimately, was what prepared me for what I was about to endure. I needed to see what it looked like, and I needed to hear from other women who had been through it. I didn’t need to be told not to eat soft-serve ice cream or soft cheeses, I didn’t need any more seeds of fear planted in my already-anxious mind. I needed honesty, I needed something raw, I needed to be intimately aware of what my body was experiencing. I needed some real noise to drown out the monotonous drone of medicalized, procedural birth.

I realize I sound like a bit of a radical here. I don’t have any qualms with hospital births, and I think in some cases, medical intervention is absolutely necessary. This was true for me – after my daughter was born, at home, in my living room, I went to the hospital for stitches. She was a big baby, but she was born healthy and strong. I do believe that hospital births can be positive and autonomous, especially with the help of a doula, but that wasn’t the path I took at that time.

I also realize that my title may be a bit misleading: I did, in fact, read while pregnant. I read often. I read as much as I could get my hands on. But I read intentionally. I chose not to read most of the mainstream literature because it didn’t feel right. It made me feel shame, for being pregnant without a marriage and a stable job. It made me feel as if my body had been taken over by not just another being, but by an institution, and I wanted to push back against that. I suppose I am thankful for the naivety I had at that time, because I truly believed I could do anything. The books I read and the online communities I belonged to during my pregnancy were some of the most formative experiences I had as a new mother. They helped me come into my own as a woman, and shaped the values I carry with me today, as the parent of a now-4th grader. Both books and online spaces are prioritized in our home as a means for connection, for communication, and for acquiring knowledge. I hope that my daughter realizes this, and is able to pass it along to her own family (be it blood or otherwise) someday.

A Little Bit of Comics History

I didn’t come to comics by way of superheroes or films. I didn’t read them as a child. I had never even held a comic book in my hands until 2014, when I heard about Ms. Marvel and Lumberjanes through a friend on social media. I picked up my first issue of LJ (a variant cover!) at Motor City Comic Con in 2014, and started reading Ms. Marvel not long after that. Somewhere along the way I had understood comics to be a boy’s world, and so it was exciting to discover there were comics that had women front and center. Since then, I’ve become a regular reader of Saga and Bitch Planet in addition to LJ (though I’ve stopped following Ms. Marvel as closely), and my bookshelves include a number of graphic novels as well (mostly nonfiction).

I had read graphic novels and manga before I started reading comics, but honestly, comics were a harder genre for me to navigate as a new reader – my graphic novel and manga experience prepared me to read the panels, but the entire comic book world was unfamiliar territory. Marvel Universe was a phenomenon I couldn’t find a point of entry to. Same with DC Comics. On top of that, women in comics have historically been portrayed as sex objects, which is a huge issue for me. I had no interest in picking up something displaying a scantily-clad woman with large breasts on its cover (no matter how much I might appreciate the female body). I wanted to read about strong, smart women who didn’t exist solely for the purposes of male pleasure – and those series do exist, if you’re willing to do some digging (and fortunately, there is less digging to be done now that female-friendly comics have become more established in the culture). I do still feel a bit overwhelmed sometimes when I peruse the shelves at Green Brain Comics here in Dearborn, because there are so many titles. Comic book aficionados know the creators, the big names in the industry, the canon and its criticism, and that can be (okay, it is) very intimidating.

In April 2016, Dan Merritt from Green Brain gave a talk at the Dearborn Public Library on the history of comics. It was a small but fascinating discussion that helped me understand how comics became what they are now. As someone who still has major reservations when it comes to superhero comics, I do feel like an outsider, and maybe I always will. I’m okay with that. I value the history of comics, though, in that it helps me understand the larger context that the literature I do read is a part of.

Comics, traditionally, were seen as young people’s territory. This is partly because we associate pictorial representations with children (Dr. Seuss, anyone?), and because we’ve created a system in which literacy (in this case, the ability to read and write) is a marker of intelligence and status, therefore pictures are for those who are less smart (this is explained in further detail by Scott McCloud in Understanding Comics). Comics were, for a long time, regulated by the Comics Code Authority, which limited depictions of violence and graphic imagery believed to be harmful to children. Keep in mind that this was the 1950’s, and what was considered “appropriate” for children was also racially charged (ie: people of color were rarely seen, and could never be portrayed as heroes).

The underground comics (comix) scene developed in response to such regulations. Comics that defied the CCA were published and circulated in underground networks. Mainstream comics were still very much present, though the Code was revised to include lessons of morality; in other words, comics were seen as potential teaching tool, still for an audience of adolescents. Marvel and DC generally followed the CCA; in the late 1960’s and early 1970’s, a three-part Spiderman story was released in partnership with the U.S. Dept of Health that explicitly portrayed drug use as dangerous. The CCA remained through the 1980’s, though its influence waned as it relaxed, and comics aimed at adult readers became more popular. Marvel and DC currently use their own ratings system to designate appropriate age groups for what they publish.

The Comic Books Legal Defense Fund (CBLDF) now owns the CCA seal, which serves as a reminder of the restrictions placed on comic book creators. The seal was acquired during Banned Books Week:

CBLDF Executive Director Charles Brownstein says, “As we reflect upon the challenges facing intellectual freedom during Banned Books Week, the Comics Code Seal is a reminder that it’s possible for an entire creative field to have those rights curtailed because of government, public, and market pressures. Fortunately, today comics are no longer constrained as they were in the days of the Code, but that’s not something we can take for granted. Banned Books Week reminds us that challenges to free speech still occur, and we must always be vigilant in fighting them.”

If you were to walk into your local comic book store today, you may find a designated children’s section, but that section would be just a fraction of what is available for an adult audience. Traditionally, comics have focused on horror, sci-fi/fantasy, and the supernatural, and this is generally still true today though some stories have become darker and others have become more playful. High artistic standards have elevated comics as a recognized form of literature by readers and scholars alike, and film adaptations have brought comics to new audiences. Creators have also regained creative control, and independent publishers like Image (a spin-off of Marvel) formed to honor creator-owned work. There has also been a strong push for more diversity in comics, though one major issue there is with the readership: people who have historically been excluded from comics storylines aren’t likely to know that anything has changed unless they are explicitly, humbly, and kindly invited back to the table.

So where do graphic novels fit in? Graphic novels are essentially book-length comics with more sophisticated and varied content, according to the ALA. While I don’t love the ALA’s language (graphic novels are more “grown up?”), the sentiment may be true: graphic novels are more literary and “cultured:” they deal with subject matter that moves more slowly (compared to the action of comics) and is more intellectually complex. That doesn’t mean it’s “better” or that people who read comics are dumb, graphic novels just do something different; the genre features serve a purpose. The memoir is a common theme in contemporary graphic novels. Blankets is a good example of this, as are both of Alison Bechdel’s books.

I hope I’ve done comics justice here; again, as an outsider working her way in, I don’t always feel confident sharing backstory, because I may not fully understand it. However, the internet makes a lot of information freely available (much love, Wikipedia!), and people care enough to make sure that information is accurate and detailed (thanks to those who wrote, revised, and provided footnotes!). I’ve also picked up some new books to read, including Watchmen by Alan Moore, considered to be one of the key works that brought comics to mainstream readers. I have Comic Book Nation: The Transformation of Youth Culture in America, and Enter the Superheroes: American Values, Culture, and the Canon of Superhero Literature on my to-read list this semester as well.

Below are some links to check out:

Much of this post was adapted from the Comics Code Authority Wikipedia page.

We Need Diverse Comics on Facebook

Women Don’t Read Comics (this one has a video *and* the article is a transcript of the video, hooray for accessibility!)

American Splendor is a book and film about Cleveland-based Harvey Pekar, one of the big names in underground comix.

ComiqueCon, a celebration of women in comics, is an event held annually in Dearborn at the Arab American National Museum!