“KERSPLOOSH”, said the chocolate milk as the bully poured the brown beverage on top of my afro-occupied head. “And why are you reading these make-believe books? Such a clown.”

Markel reached over my shoulder and snatched my comic books while Donte held me in a headlock. The usual. The aforementioned sequence was swift, and without conscious thought, Markel’s movements appeared almost scripted, as if he had done this many a time before like, for example, exactly a day prior. I had been bullied for a while now, so this wasn’t much of a new experience for me. But, even though the milk-move was a bit new, I admit, I had developed sort of a sixth sense for when the bullying was about to begin, see, there was a pattern: the teacher leaves the classroom, the classroom grows chaotic, kids start throwing things, I’m sitting quietly, suddenly, I’m battered down. I couldn’t understand or explain this strange phenomenon but, it was a way of life. My life.

It was a hot day; the sun boiled like an oven preheated to precisely 400 degrees, ready for my grandma’s famous southern baked Mac & Cheese. Coincidentally, that’s also who’s house I was headed towards. I walked off the bus and scurried towards the big green house, the only house accompanied by my beautiful grandparents in all their Griffin-pride. I was no longer drenched in milk from the choco-dairy treat, only the battle scars of that incident remained; the brownish beige stains hung close to my once white t-shirt, the shapely stains now resembling that of a cow’s natural coat. And there was an incredibly sour smell to accompany the cow cosplay, which was the first thing my grandfather said when he hugged me. “Marc, did you fall into a vat of milk?” Said my grandfather, scouting and examining my ill-fated t-shirt. “And your hair, your mother will throw a ‘fit if she see yo hair like this, let’s get you cleaned up, and you’re going to tell me everything.”

Clean and finally dairy-free, I sat in the living room of my grandparent’s home, my wide brown eyes studying the pictures of generations that came before me, framed memories of accomplishments and joyous occasion. My grandfather floated into the room and sat in his chair. Equipped with, what appeared to be several magazines, he gestured for me to come towards him. He opened up his candy jar, reached for butterscotch, placed the golden treat on top of the magazines and handed it off to me. Holding the old magazines, I began to realize that these were actually comic books. “But how—“I tried to say before a trembling in my voice stopped me. “I see you with these darn things all the time, so I found you a couple. Look, Marc. I know you’re being bullied at school, and before you tell me you haven’t…” he stopped and gestured at the comic books, “how about we just look at a few of these. He removed the book from the top to reveal a book that he proclaimed “would help you.” “This is the Amazing Spider-Man, this is a really good one, see, Peter Parker was bullied too, but he rose above it all. Yes, by way of a radioactive spider, but he did it, nonetheless”, he said, chuckling. “Marc, you’re greater than whatever issue is happening to you right now, and your potential is limitless. The sky is not the limit, for you will be walking on clouds one day. You just need to believe in yourself and this book”, he said, pointing at the costumed spider hero. “This will help you understand. I know it will.”

It’s been 16 years since that moment. I carried the idea of Spider-Man with me like a lucky pendant, assisting me in warding off the anxieties of self-doubt, shame, and of course, bullying. By reading that comic book and talking to my grandfather more about life and all its trials tribulations, something clicked. A year later, I would lose my grandfather as he died at the age of 80, but around that same time, I grew more confident in myself and, eventually, the bullying stopped. Obviously, I didn’t become Spider-Man, but the idea…the symbol of becoming Spider-Man allowed me to become me.

My grandfather was right.