I have a special place in my heart for Identity Crisis. It was the first comic I read in college after spending most of high school pretending I wasn’t a comic book nerd.

This was the late 90s and long before nerd culture went mainstream. Before the Marvel Cinematic Universe and before comics were something you could casually admit to reading without getting strange, judgmental looks. Back then, comic books and nerd culture had a certain stigma to it. Or so I thought. As a self-conscious and insecure teenager, I believed that admitting I read comics would have been a death sentence to whatever social standing I thought I had. The girls weren’t going to date the guy digging through battered cardboard boxes at the flea market looking for back issues or who still had Wolverine and Silver Surfer posters on his wall.

Looking back as a forty-three-year-old man, I can honestly say that I was pretty goddamn stupid.

Nobody ever actually told me comics were lame. I convinced myself of that on my own and acted accordingly. I watched friends who used to spend recesses with me discussing the latest Batman episodes slowly trade all that in for sports, music, and girls. Things that felt more “grown up.” So, I did the same thing, even if I still cared about comics in private.

After high school, my first year of college was a full sensory reboot. I was in a new, unfamiliar environment, surrounded by hundreds of strangers passing by while I stood frozen in front of UTSA’s John Peace Library with a proverbial thumb up my ass. I was out of my depth; adulthood showed up faster than I realized and I felt like I’d been tossed into the deep end of a pool without knowing how to swim.

So, I wandered looking for a place to hide while I waited for my first class to begin. That’s when I ended up in the UTSA game room, the Roadrunner’s Roost. That place changed everything. It was packed with other misfits who felt out of place, a place where I felt comfortable and met new friends who liked the same stuff I did and didn’t hide it. I spent more time in that room than I should have, playing pool or arguing about slasher movies and video games and debating comic books like they still mattered. And they did matter. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I had to mask my personality. I found my tribe.

One day, my new buddy Rob handed me a trade paperback and asked, “Have your read this?” I stared at the cover, gazing at the image of a cracked framed photo of the Justice League and the title in its big bold font, Identity Crisis.



The book felt heavier than I expected, as all seven issues of the storyline were compiled in this collection. Up to that point, I had limited exposure to trade paperback collections or compilations. I was used to single issues; the slim monthly comics printed on cheap paper that you’d grab at a gas station newsstand or pharmacy spinner racks. Kids today probably don’t even believe that this is how we bought comics back in the day. I flipped through this book’s glossy pages and landed on the two-page funeral scene in issue one. That was it. I was immediately hooked. I needed to know who died.

So, what is Identity Crisis, you may ask. It’s a 2004 DC limited series about the murder of a superhero’s wife and the Justice League’s search for her killer. But in their search, they expose the secrets, compromises, and decisions that the team have hidden from each other and the world. The ensuing search for the killer reveals the skeletons hidden in their closets and presents the reader with moral quandaries that weren’t prevalent in mainstream comics at that time. It’s a story about grief, violence, and revenge and it forces the reader to reevaluate their perceptions of their favorite superheroes and their beliefs and ethics. I’m not going to share any spoilers, suffice to say, just read the book for yourself and you’ll understand why I’m not exposing any plot points or twists in the story.

I finished the book in one night, all seven issues and 260 pages. The following day as soon as my classes ended, Rob and I rushed to the closest comic shop, and I bought my own copy and a plastic protective sleeve. I remember the cashier placing the comic in the sleeve, taping the top flap shut, and asking me what I thought about the story. I don’t remember the details of that conversation, but I do remember him handing me a handwritten list of trades to purchase on my next trip. I remember getting home and placing the book in the cardboard box that held all my childhood comics. I don’t remember sealing that box, but I do remember bringing it with me as I moved and lived for the next two decades. It’s only recently that I pulled that box out from the depths of my closet, unsealed it, and examined the long dormant contents.

Here’s the thing I realized while browsing through the issues in that box: I had not reread Identity Crisis since that night I first read it. The copy I purchased remained sealed inside the plastic protective sleeve, pristine and untouched since the cashier scanned the bar code and slide it into the plastic. I’ve never forgotten the story and how it made me feel after that first reading. But as I held that book, I wondered if the story was still as emotionally impactful as I remember. Was I romanticizing that first experience, and was it really as good as I remember? So, I slid it out of the sleeve, sat on the couch, and read it again.

It did not resonate in the same way as it did when I was in my twenties. Not because the story didn’t age well or because I noticed some flaws in the art and storytelling. The story hadn’t changed. I did. At that young age, I hadn’t experienced life changing circumstances and events. I hadn’t experienced true love, heartbreak, and the loss of a parent.

This second reading made me realize Identity Crisis wasn’t a superhero murder mystery; it was a commentary on absence. It’s about what happens when someone you love is gone and there is no second conversation waiting for you later. It’s about the emotional weight of failing to save someone you love. It’s about the world-shattering reality of grief.

There is an image in issue five that is tattooed in my memory: Robin kneeling over the body of his father, moments too late to prevent his murder. His eyes frozen in shock, tears streaming down his face like torrents. Batman is crouching over him, wrapping him in his cape and cradling Robin in his arms. Robin’s hand is gripping Batman’s arm for support and comfort, as if that was the only thing anchoring Robin from sinking into the abyss at that moment. Batman is leaning over Robin tells him, “I’ve got you.” Underneath them two text boxes hover beneath them, “Batman and Robin. Orphans.”

I understand the gravity of a moment like this. Those first moments of numbness and shock when you see your loved one expire. Those seconds where your mind refuses to accept what your eyes and heart already know. The instinct to reach for the person standing next to you. I empathize with Robin’s pain. I understand Batman’s role in this image too, trying to comfort and support someone else’s grief while trying to hold yourself together. Trying to save someone from succumbing to their grief while dealing with your own. I’ve done that, more than once. And I didn’t need a mask or cape to do so.

Identity Crisis isn’t really about superheroes. It’s about loss, and the secrets and emotions that people carry until they fester and rot from within. It’s about the people left behind and how they piece together their lives after the one they had breaks. Maybe that is why this story has stayed with me after so long, despite only two readings. Because you don’t always understand what something means when you first read it. Sometimes you only understand later, after life catches up to the story.

I’m sure if I read it again in another twenty years, I’ll find something else in it. Another interpretation, a new perspective, and new emotions. Hopefully I’ll find something closer to love and hope than grief. And if you read this book, you’ll feel that too. We all can use more love and hope.