We were Generation X
We were promised moon colonies. We got laser printers.
We were told we’d do better than our parents—then found the doors slammed shut behind them.
The Greatest Generation built the world. The Baby Boomers inherited it. Generation X was left to sweep the floors after the party ended.
We grew up on stories of greatness—gods in capes, men who could fly. But when our turn came, the superpowers we inherited were a Pepper’s ghost illusion of smoke, mirrors and glass. Our Superman stayed dead, replaced with variant covers, marketing gimmicks, and a corporate smile that didn’t reach his eyes. A pointless return from the dead had made him a zombie god.
We were angry—because we had a reason to be.
We were cynical—because we didn’t have a choice.
We were a generation of survivors. Generation X either went to jail, rehab, or the military. We weren’t looking for superheroes because we didn’t need them, hell, we shattered every army that stood against us. No, we were looking for stories that understood what it felt like to get your face slammed into the concrete, then get up and keep walking. Comics that understood us. We found them in things like: The Crow. Alien Legion, Cyber Force. Miller’s Sin City. Spawn. Dixon’s Punisher. Grit, blood, fire, betrayal—these weren’t escapism. These were our career paths.
But deep down, we still remembered what it felt like to believe.
We didn’t hate Superman. We still wanted him to be around even if we weren't reading him anymore. We couldn’t accept the big lie but we missed the big dream.
We still wanted to believe a man could fly.
A God for the American Century – Part VII
Do You Still Believe a Man Can Fly?
