Every Saturday morning of my childhood I would wake up early to catch Saturday morning cartoons on Channel 12 and eat 4 bowls of Fruit Loops (the official cereal of homosexuals) before my parents woke up. And since local Channel 12 couldn’t really afford syndication fees for the hip new cartoons like Aaahh!! Real Monsters, they showed the old Hanna-Barbera cartoons. You know the ones; groups of teenagers get into unrealistic adventures with their animal mascot where some combination of their smarts, athletic ability, and scienctific gadgets come in super handy for defeating some dastardly villian with vague underhanded motives. There was Scooby-Doo, and it’s spin-off Scrappy-Doo which had younger me convinced Scooby had died in a freak firework-and-toy-train accident, Josie and the Pussycats (I didn’t watch this one, for obvious reasons), Speed Buggy, who’s premise and characters were suspiciously similar to Scooby-Doo if Scooby was a dune buggy instead of a Great Dane, and my personal favorite: Johnny Quest.
(Then of course there were the series of shows where a couple of teenagers discover a bit of jewelry which gives them the power to summon or command some set of supernatural powers. There were a bunch of these. Shazam!, Young Samson, The Mighty Hercules, Captain Planet, Hong Kong Phooey. These all featured attractive young boys (and one anthropomorphic dog) who with a simple word could call upon or transform into muscly flying superheroes. I only mention these shows because they often involved a toga or spandex, and I was totally into that.)
Johnny Quest was America’s first TV show about a family with two dads. The story follows the adventures of Johnny Quest, son of Dr. Benton Quest, a governmental scientist who had an impressively vast knowledge in a wide range of subjects. Apparently, he just has a doctorate in “Science.” Johnny is a 12-year-old with a surprisingly well-developed vocabulary, vast martial arts and scuba training, and wide experience with laser guns. He is joined in his adventures by his dog Bandit and his brother Hadji, an adopted streetwise Calcutta orphan who, lest we forgot was Indian, always wears a turban to remind us (these cartoons were known for their progressive family values, not their racial sensitivity). And while Dr. Quest is away doing all the science, the boys are protected by bodyguard/special agent/pilot/dreamboat Roger “Race” Bannon. People try to convince me that Dr. Quest and Race were not sleeping together, but just watch the title sequence. Look at those sideways glances and tell me there’s no homoerotic subtext.
Race Bannon was my first crush. He always wore these tight red shirts and flew around in jets looking smug and manly. He was often shirtless, teaching Johnny and Hadji how to snorkel or wrestling with an alien octopus. He shot guns and fought dinosaurs and blew up spaceships. I didn’t know at the time that I wanted Race Bannon, but I did know wanted to be Race Bannon. I’m still not entirely against naming my future son Race. I guess it’s no wonder I grew up identifying with Race and the Quests. They were superheroes without masks. They were the Quests, a family made up of unrealistically talented individuals; and they were nothing more. They weren’t hiding identities or living double lives as accountants and news reporters. And they were living the dream; if “the dream” was travelling the world looking for ancient treasures and being kidnapped by criminal masterminds with disappointingly ineffective death traps.
I know the topic of superheroes as allegory for homosexuality has often been explored. I’ve read things on how the Amazing X-Men is really just a metaphor for the gay community and how Superman was America’s first gay icon, and I’ve also seen fan fiction about Batman and Fred from Scooby-Doo. But this isn’t why identified with superheroes. I was fascinated with superheroes because I was jealous of them. I was jealous of the fact that they got to be superheroes, even if they had to wear a mask to do it. They got to fly around and save damsels and beat swamp monsters all they wanted. And me? I was all Clark and no Superman. Forever Shoe-Shine Boy, never Underdog. I was jealous that they got to be who they wanted and never had parents who told them to clean their rooms. I was destined to live as Straighty McGee, and never reveal my secret identity, Captain Fabulous: purveyor of good taste, distributor of rainbows, enforcer of equal rights for all.
That, in a very roundabout way, brings me to my point. A few days ago, my college roommate and his fiancee were made aware of the existence of this blog (hi guys!). They of course took all of “3.5 seconds to realize” it was me and my particular brand of humor, and messaged me. We talked it out and they were super cool and supportive and I’m still going to be in their wedding. But the turn of events also made me realize something important.
Being gay does not make me Superman, it makes me Race Bannon. It is time for me to quit hiding behind a mask. It’s time to raise my large gaudy ring in the air and shout the magic words, after which I will gain the confident stride of a much more muscular man (and hopefully the body of a much more muscular man, but I’m not holding my breath). I’ve spent enough time changing in and out of some costume in the proverbial “phone booth”, a word I’ve chosen to substitute for “closet” as per my earlier discussion of the term. It’s time for me to quit pretending to be ashamed about this part of me. And if it bothers any of my friends, then just like my hero/love interest Race Bannon punching a giant mechanical spider until it explodes, my scrawny little fist will punch the “Unfollow” button. So take that, haters and racially stereotypical Cold War-era villains bent on world destruction!
And Happy Saturday, readers! May your Loops be ever Fruity!
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