I love you, Baby, and that's why I can't raise you DC

I don't know exactly how to go about writing this post. I had actually thought about setting it in the future as a discussion between my two daughters. The oldest, already married, would be talking to the younger a week before her wedding. My oldest daughter would be saying things like, "Remember how Dad wanted to get someone dressed as Captain America to officiate the wedding?" and the younger daughter would smile and nod, but distantly. It would dawn on the older that something might be bothering her little sister and she would assume it was pre-wedding jitters, and assure her everything was going to be great. Finally, it would be revealed that it wasn't the wedding per se that was bothering her, but the fact that her father hadn't wanted to get a Superman to officiate her wedding. And with that piece of information we would all come to learn that the father, me, did not care about the younger sister as much as the older. Because in this nightmare universe, the younger would have been raised on the Distinguished Competition.


But it seemed better to start in the past, not so long ago, but long enough.


When my oldest daughter was little and would want to play Trivial Pursuit with the rest of us, I would let her roll the dice, place her game piece, and dramatically draw a card in which to ask her a question. "Alright," I would say, and then mutter something like this is a hard one under my breath and look unsure. "Are you ready?" in answer my daughter would tilt herself into a pitch of readiness and nod. "What is...the Incredible Hulk's real name?" I would read from the Geography Category.
"BRUCE BANNER!" my daughter would scream, beaming. Yes, Honey, that's exactly right.


Posing with Spider-Man at Universal Studios, holding her hands in web-shooting fashion, perfectly.


Announcing S.H.I.E.L.D. meetings to discuss upcoming threats.


Go back further, holding her as a baby under the ToyBiz Silver Surfer hanging from the ceiling, the reflected light bouncing on her skin, softly, softly, going to sleep, connection of the Power Cosmic.


To be sure, Reader, my daughter was raised Marvel.


Now I have another daughter, and for a brief time I thought to myself: should I raise this one DC?
I was on the precipice, that dark barren valley before me, the unknown there in the dusk. But unlike B.F. Skinner, I was able to turn away. My God...raise my...my daughter on DC? What folly I nearly led my family into. To give one daughter chocolate ice cream and the other vanilla, to burn a candle for Vader in one room and Maul the next? No. Never. Never, Baby. You are not some experiment of conditioning and behaviorism. You are my daughter, you are of House Dorge, and you will not suffer inferiority for the sake of expanse.


You'll know who Batman is, you'll know what Kal El means, you'll know how to say "Darkseid", and you'll read Moore, Gaiman, and Miller...but Baby, that's it.


You don't need to know who the hell Black Adam is, or anything about Cyborg. You'll never utter Green Lantern's oath or know what the Speed Force is.


I promise you, Baby, you're safe from that.


You're going to know Vibranium and Beta Ray Bill. You're going to have a Ben Reilly Lives tattoo. You'll know Stark's middle name, you'll list every actor that's played Hulk, and you'll know where the
Black Costume came from. You'll answer correctly when asked, "Cyclops or Wolverine?"


We're in this together, there's four of us and that's...Fantastic. We've got you, we've been waiting and it's time to go.


This is my promise to you, Baby, because I love you.


Excelsior.