You can tell a lot about a person by what’s on their nightstand. Next to my bed are two blue milk crates stacked on each other and stuffed with books, an anticipatory bottle of melatonin, Vicks VapoRub, a box of tissues and a couple of pens for good measure. On top of everything, next to another stack of books and an alarm clock that my brain only selectively notices, are two Archie Comics books, both recently gifted to me by a friend. I’ve read both since I was given them, but still I like to keep them next to my pillow; their tattered covers adorned with familiar characters have become a comforting image before I go to sleep each night.
Archie Comics are one of the most emblematic symbols of my childhood and one that is shared across generations of my family, from siblings and cousins, parents and grandparents, to my aunts and uncles. I grew up reading them at my grandparents’ cabin in northern Michigan, my siblings and I squabbling over the same copies my dad and his siblings shared in their own youth. They’re the perfect read for just about any setting — rocking in the porch swing, trying to fall asleep at night, eating breakfast or sitting on the dock.
I love these comics with all my heart, but as I sift through the rather large stack of them taking up residence on my desk, I’ve started to reexamine the way my relationship to these characters has changed over time. The comics, which have been around for nearly 85 years, have evolved to incorporate modern-day social settings and pop culture references (among other changes). Even so, across a varied cast of characters and many distinctive plot lines, the essential premise of the franchise remains the same: Betty Cooper and Veronica Lodge are both in love with Archie Andrews, and he is in love with each of them as well.
Betty and Veronica are constantly competing against each other to win Archie’s affections, often sacrificing their close friendship in an effort to gain an edge on the other. Archie, in turn, is easily swayed by whichever girl brandishes a freshly baked pie or a new bikini and can be insensitive in the way he handles the “loser’s” emotions. Whoever he asks out on a date, for any given occasion, feels smug, and whoever he doesn’t ask feels like they must have done something wrong. Betty and Veronica have their own lives and identities beyond their pursuit of Archie. Yet, so much of the plot in these books is centered around the relentless female pursuit of male affection as a way to affirm their own identity. All of this is to say, the Archie Comics aren’t your typical feminist read.
However, my intention is not to make a case against Archie Comics. Most of the ones I read in my childhood were nearly 50 years old, and written in the context of a vastly different social environment with a higher tolerance for gender stereotyping than we’re willing to accept today. I love the comics and hope to continue reading them for the rest of my life. Still, I often think about this sentiment — how the present-day version of me is able to think through something with a critical eye, something that I once used to accept without a second thought. I see this change in perspective as being illustrious of a broader social phenomenon that conflates aging and deterioration, seeing the natural process of growing older as a way of inevitably changing for the worse.
Everything ages, and some things better than others. We’re no strangers to physical manifestations of age on the human body (like wrinkles), and in tandem, we attempt to cover up these signs of aging and present an illusion of youth. In recent decades, we’ve also seen a lower tolerance to insensitive jokes and acts of cultural appropriation, often expressed through the lens of “cancel culture” in digital spheres, which some Americans consider inconducive to productive conversations.
Each of these examples demonstrate how not only are we, as an American society, generally terrified of getting older, but that we also fear difficult, transparent conversations surrounding the process of aging. That which ages poorly is a nationally shared “skeleton in the closet” — a reminder of our individual pasts that we fear too much to confront. There’s this looming threat of social punishment that constantly clouds the way we think about aging, and stops us from talking about it openly.
Some of the strongest feelings of embarrassment surrounding age that I experience stem from thinking about a younger version of myself from a current, grown-up perspective. I find it natural to obsess over what has not aged well from my childhood personality and hobbies, even though doing so brings up uncomfortable feelings of regret and self-consciousness. I know I’m not alone in thinking about my younger self this way, which makes me wonder why people are so prone to hiding the characteristics of their younger selves that they’re embarrassed of. Why does this sense of shame and aversion to open conversations continue to run so deeply if embarrassing childhood memories are something that no individual is immune to?
I want to paint you a picture of my middle school self, in all of her glory, as someone that spent most of their high school years being decidedly ashamed of. I played many sports and was not notably good at any of them. I put my hair in a high bun or ponytail almost every single day. I had a Hamilton phase. I wore the school’s bulldog mascot costume during a pep rally one year and ran scared from a group of eighth-grade boys who wanted to unmask my identity. I thought of the homework for my English classes as “dessert” (and this one I actually stand by). I wrote stories in a blue composition notebook whose characters were not humans but mountain goats. In short, I was nothing shy of a total nerd, as all middle schoolers are. Twelve-year-old me cared a lot about what other people thought of her but still managed to find a way to boldly own the things she loved. Now, I find myself wondering how in the world she was able to do that because at this point in my life, it feels like in every decision I make, I am forced to meticulously measure my present interest against future consequences.
Ever since I turned 18, for example, a small part of me has wanted to get a tattoo, more so because I can than for any other reason. But as much as I think about it, I cannot think of a single image or symbol that I could confidently say would be timeless enough for me to enjoy having on my body forever. Even the Libra symbol, something I once resonated with wholeheartedly and thought to be utterly classic, now seems so high school, so cliche.
There’s a level of responsibility that comes into play when we think about which decisions are permanent and which aren’t; obviously, getting a tattoo is a decision with longer-lasting ramifications than my secret affinity for musical theatre. Still, having to constantly weigh the two and consider what my future self might think of my past decisions is exhausting.
Part of this fear of aging is that we’re taught to take preventative measures — to anticipate what might age poorly before it even has the chance to age at all. But at what point does trying to preemptively combat the natural process of aging move from being self-preservational to existing to our own detriment? If my 10-year-old self had anticipated that future me might take some issue, however small, with the way female characters are portrayed in the Archie Comics, would I have avoided them altogether? I don’t want to imagine a childhood where Archies weren’t a staple summertime read. The thing is, I don’t feel guilty for having read them — in part because I’ve confidently owned my relationship to these comics at all stages of my life.
Our relationship to the past and to that which ages poorly can be dynamic, and doesn’t always have to be tainted with regret. I can love the Archie comics then and now, and still recognize that the way they present certain gender roles is flawed. It’s the anticipatory feelings of shame that I take issue with — the idea that our present selves should be constantly considering what will and will not age well. If our decisions of what to love are made honestly and with good intentions, and if we open ourselves up to having transparent conversations when things age poorly, then I’m not sure if there’s more we should reasonably hold ourselves to. I cannot predict the future, but I can own what I love in the moment and continue to remember that perception changes with age.
Oftentimes, I find myself trying to break up my consciousness into three separate individuals — my younger self, my present self and my future self — all while knowing that in doing so, I’m engaging in a never-ending cycle where my present self becomes my past self and my future self becomes my present self as time progresses. This isn’t a real distinction in the way we define ourselves or any person as a singular, sentient identity, but it’s a notable distinction in the way we think about growth and the passage of time. I would like to think that I’m far removed from the middle school iteration of myself who embarrasses me with the cheesy stories and poems she wrote. But in reality, each of these versions of myself are all within me — either within my physical body, my memory or my imagination. These different versions of my identity all coalesce into my metaphorical skeleton, my structural support, my foundation.
So how could I dare to feel embarrassed or frightened of my past and future selves? No matter how poorly they might age, they are me and I am them. In recognizing that I am a singular person who carries the memory of things I loved in the past alongside the potential for who I’ll be in the future, I find this sense of perpetual embarrassment alleviated — at least a little bit. It is all a skeleton, still — simultaneously the framework of old ways I used to be and a vague, hidden outline of my fears — but I dare to open the closet door and stare the skeleton right in the eyes. That’s how you tackle this aversion to aging in any of the frightening ways it might manifest itself in your life: You recognize that everything will eventually change with time, and you start to talk about it.
Statement Columnist Katie Lynch can be reached at katiely@umich.edu.
The post When you age, your skeletons do too appeared first on The Michigan Daily.
Leave a Reply