professor imam and the squadron supreme

Speaking of comic books, I've recently started to get into the Squadron Supreme especially in their more recently rebooted incarnation. The characters aren't well known but the concept behind them is interesting. Basically they are Marvel Comic's revisioning of /parody of /homage to /commentary on the major DC Comic superheroes. Their names and costumes are different enough that the probably won't raise copyright issues, but their powers and back stories are similar enough that the intention is clear.

Both the original and the rebooted characters explore the dark side of the superhero concept. For example, an important storyline involving the original Squadron had them try to turn the U.S. into a crime-free utopian society and ended up creating a police-state.

Furthermore, I'm not sure if he's explicitly described as Muslim, but taking a leap based on his name, the original Squadron Supreme character Professor Imam may be one of the earliest Muslim superheroes in either Marvel or DC. I haven't yet seen him appear in the rebooted Squadron but I hope he shows up. It would probably allow for some good political stories.

In the rebooted version, "Superman" (Hyperion) is initially found by farmers but eventually Truman Show-ed by the U.S. government who want to make sure he grows up patriotic and compliant. Instead of there being a single token Black superhero, both "Batman" (Nighthawk) and "the Flash" (the Blur) are African-American and have numerous political arguments about their obligations to "the people". In Nighthawk's case especially, his parents were specifically killed by white supremacists, so as an adult he takes a by-any-means-necessary approach to fighting racist and genocidal villains both in the inner-city (primarily Chicago) and in Africa. These are definitely not your grandparents superheroes...

See also:
female, muslim and mutant
naif al-muwata on the 99
josiah x
in brightest day, in blackest night

superman in the nursing home

Thinking about Wanted for the last post reminded me of the following poem which gives a whole other spin to the superman myth:

Superman in the Nursing Home
by Rusty Russell


It started with the flying.
I just had to get away.
I thought I was going crazy, hearing things –
voices, sirens, water running behind walls,
and the crying, someone always crying behind closed doors.
It was that super hearing. I had it then.
So some nights I'd fly out of the city
until I couldn't hear them anymore,
way out over the ocean where I could see the earth turning
and the sun rising over the edge of the next day.
Miraculous, made me feel like the only man on earth,
but I wasn't a man. I was a freak.
Then came all those years
of changing clothes in dirty phone booths;
chewing gum on the floor getting stuck in my pants,
cigarette butts, and the smell of winos and urine.
Sometimes the phone would ring while I was in there
and it always gave me the creeps.
Think about it – an anonymous telephone
in the middle of the night on a deserted street
and it's ringing for someone. Anyone.
I never picked it up. I didn't want to hear it –
lives pulled thin over a phone wire,
stories of pockets with holes,
bad breath whistling through bad teeth.
What could I do?
Someone sobbing and sloppy drunk in a bar somewhere
picks up a phone, dials a number at random
and gets Superman
with his pants down in a phone booth.
Believe it or not, this Superman thing started out modestly:
no cape, no tights.
Just lifting automobiles off trapped motorists,
or catching falling babies before they hit the sidewalk.
But it felt so good, the applause,
the way the Earth girls looked at me,
and it all got out of hand.
I should have stopped after the first bank robbery.
There would never be any cash reward in this
for an indestructible guy like me.
Just "Thanks, Superman,"
and the bankers smiling as I flew away.
All the time they were thinking,
"What a fucking tool," and they were right.
Hell, it was all insured.
If I'd quit then and done something with myself –
forgotten this superhero thing and gotten a realtor's license
or just a full time job with benefits,
maybe I wouldn't be waiting for the TV hour
here in the dayroom of the County Home.
I never saved anyone from this. No one could.
But in a way, it's true, what they say,
that every moment lasts forever,
because I still dream about those first nights
when I was young, before it all started,
flying out of Metropolis in my pajamas
with the moon overhead and the silver ocean below,
and the billboards left behind
like a cry for help I can finally ignore.