On March 12 after teaching my last class on Latin American Literature to my undergraduate students–just before Spring Break–I came home and crawled down a rabbit hole into Quarantine-landia. In the weeks that followed I initially carried on in a virtual world using my different screens (phone, tablet, and laptop) to stay connected to students, colleagues, friends, family and the outside world. The screen became a window to the outside world, but I soon discovered that there was the other side to the window, and it was the inside world of my Brooklyn apartment and myself, which I was less acquainted with and more vulnerable in.
On the other side of the window there were the news headlines, social media, and the buzz–a world of words. On this side of the window there was my home, my early morning walks in the park, and the quiet–a world of images. Initially I felt a dissonance between the noise of the outside world and the respite of the inside world. Even when I listened to music the words in a song felt like interruptions to what I felt the instrumentation was trying to brush and imprint on the surface of my mind. The worlds of words and images and that of the outside and the inside, began to stretch apart and in the in-between space I found breathing room for my emotions. In the inside world with fewer words I felt less trapped and less suffocated. When I ventured out into the muted neighborhood to go to the supermarket I noticed the stillness of the buildings and the movement of the trees. I saw people motioning with their eyes and gesturing with their hands to communicate behind masks and plexiglass. Studying imagery and how images are used to exchange meaning became more effective to map my local and intimate worldview. Images filled the frames of how I was beginning to observe and experience the world. I even pictured words, that of my own and others around me, in talking and thinking bubbles. I was developing a hybrid language that was more fitting for me and my new world.
This newfound worldview and language of comics began to shape my work and my identities as a teacher, mentor, tutor, student, and creator. It started with making changes to my syllabus and integrating graphic novels into the course I was teaching that went online after Spring Break. I then designed an intercultural storytelling curriculum for a study abroad (remote) program using comics. I created a digital archive of Latin American comics as part of my doctoral dissertation. I sketched illustrations for a children’s book script I had shelved years ago. And I am currently designing an online workshop for formerly incarcerated youth using superhero motifs in comics. Facing a crisis–of the outside and inside worlds–is a fundamental crossroads in the hero’s journey and a story arc. Even superheroes must stare into the abyss in order to discover that their true power does not really come from shooting beams out their eyes or webs from their wrists, but lies somewhere deeper within, which makes their story that much more human and universal.
I am integrating comic forms into my work to express the anxieties, issues, and aspirations I am feeling and seeing. Through the looking glass of Quarantine-landia I am discovering a power in the language of comics to guide me along the path to the other side of the crisis. I invite you to think about your journey in a similar way–be it your college essay, your summer book report, or your biggest fear. A crisis scenario–in story and in life–can generate innovative forms for introspection, connection making, problem-solving and new languages to map the world(s) within.
– Javier Gastón-Greenberg
