When I first checked the website for my Literature of Comics class, I had to read Scott McCloud's Understanding Comics. Halfway into the book was a single, massive, daunting triangle, with each vertex representing an aspect of comics. The Picture Plane, "Reality", and Meaning.
Inside of this triangle was a myriad of heads, representing what felt like hundreds of comics. In all that chaos, I found myself instantly attached to what I now know is Vladek's character, representing Maus.
In the first two weeks I had already read through Maus, both books, and barely acknowledged the other work since. After reading Maus so early on, nothing felt like it could live up to the impact of it.
Since then, of course, I have read other comics and graphic novels to broaden my horizons, and although some have come a bit close to the standard Maus set for my personal taste, none get there.
Maus retells Art Spiegelman's story in the modern day, but primarily that of him asking his father about life during the Holocaust.
Not that my experience could ever relate to that of the son of a persecuted Jew, but sometimes throughout the book I would fall into that delusion.
My mother, having escaped Cuba and gone to jail, rarely tells me of her life outside of what I've lived with her. I was 13 years old when she told me it's normal for about 70% of people she knew to have parasites. I was 15 years old when she told me the Cuban government is known for staggering statistics to look much friendlier than they are to outsiders. I was 18 years old when she told me nonchalantly over dinner that she had held an AK and a Makarov pistol in the Cuban military... as a doctor. I was 21 years old when she told me she was a frightened 16 year old who had gone to the gynecologist, without her parents or friends, and aborted a child by her lonesome.
I know I haven't heard the last of it, yet no matter how much I want to hear her life story, she refuses. The way she talks, it riddles me with built.
"What is there to talk about? It brings me pain thinking about it. I can't."
Just like Vladek, she has constant tales of ingenious ideas to survive when rations wouldn't feed our entire family. Yet, just like Vladek, she's very particular. My sister and her used to just throw out items when they were deemed old or unsightly, not unlike Art's jacket. She cannot function or go about her own day if she knows my room isn't organized to her expectations. I always thought of myself as a horribly disorganized kid for leaving my earbuds on my desk, my glasses out of their case, and a few tablet cables on top of the desk as opposed to zip-tied.
Moving out was a massive period of discovery.
It sounds fake to me, even typing it, but I'm neater than the average person. All my roommates were an astronomical mess. I felt guilty bringing friends to my house when I hadn't done my dishes in the past few hours. My romantic relationships even took some getting used to, since no one was used to the level of anxiety I held over cleanliness.
They're very similar people, I'd argue. Old-fashioned, weird, a bit mean, but well-meaning in the end I hope.
I know Maus was not, at large, to be taken this selfishly.
The majority of the book spends time showcasing the Holocaust, Hitler's Germany, and the genocide of a populous at large that I will never be able to relate to.
Maus is my constant go-to when recommending anything nowadays.
It educated me and captivated me far beyond films and even full-blown books could ever.
Inside of this triangle was a myriad of heads, representing what felt like hundreds of comics. In all that chaos, I found myself instantly attached to what I now know is Vladek's character, representing Maus.
In the first two weeks I had already read through Maus, both books, and barely acknowledged the other work since. After reading Maus so early on, nothing felt like it could live up to the impact of it.
Since then, of course, I have read other comics and graphic novels to broaden my horizons, and although some have come a bit close to the standard Maus set for my personal taste, none get there.
Maus retells Art Spiegelman's story in the modern day, but primarily that of him asking his father about life during the Holocaust.
Not that my experience could ever relate to that of the son of a persecuted Jew, but sometimes throughout the book I would fall into that delusion.
My mother, having escaped Cuba and gone to jail, rarely tells me of her life outside of what I've lived with her. I was 13 years old when she told me it's normal for about 70% of people she knew to have parasites. I was 15 years old when she told me the Cuban government is known for staggering statistics to look much friendlier than they are to outsiders. I was 18 years old when she told me nonchalantly over dinner that she had held an AK and a Makarov pistol in the Cuban military... as a doctor. I was 21 years old when she told me she was a frightened 16 year old who had gone to the gynecologist, without her parents or friends, and aborted a child by her lonesome.
I know I haven't heard the last of it, yet no matter how much I want to hear her life story, she refuses. The way she talks, it riddles me with built.
"What is there to talk about? It brings me pain thinking about it. I can't."
Just like Vladek, she has constant tales of ingenious ideas to survive when rations wouldn't feed our entire family. Yet, just like Vladek, she's very particular. My sister and her used to just throw out items when they were deemed old or unsightly, not unlike Art's jacket. She cannot function or go about her own day if she knows my room isn't organized to her expectations. I always thought of myself as a horribly disorganized kid for leaving my earbuds on my desk, my glasses out of their case, and a few tablet cables on top of the desk as opposed to zip-tied.
Moving out was a massive period of discovery.
It sounds fake to me, even typing it, but I'm neater than the average person. All my roommates were an astronomical mess. I felt guilty bringing friends to my house when I hadn't done my dishes in the past few hours. My romantic relationships even took some getting used to, since no one was used to the level of anxiety I held over cleanliness.
They're very similar people, I'd argue. Old-fashioned, weird, a bit mean, but well-meaning in the end I hope.
I know Maus was not, at large, to be taken this selfishly.
The majority of the book spends time showcasing the Holocaust, Hitler's Germany, and the genocide of a populous at large that I will never be able to relate to.
Maus is my constant go-to when recommending anything nowadays.
It educated me and captivated me far beyond films and even full-blown books could ever.
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