My last foray into the comic book world was a dark and oddly isolated adventure during my more unfortunate high school years. My boyfriend at the time (a big reason for the aforementioned "unfortunate") was a collector and he dragged me with him to all sorts of craggy, stale, stall-like places searching for the first mega-super-electro-y-man in mint condition, quizzing geeky guys in wrinkled shirts and pouring through the slim, carefully-sleeved packages lined up in bins. I was often free to wander, my expertise in the area being not quite up to par. It was during my idle thumbing and meandering at one shop that an excited clerk shoved a handful of new books at me. "Ohmygod! You’re Death!" he exclaimed.

This was not the worst name I’d been called in high school, but normally those types of taunts were reserved for the confidently bored and popular teenagers at my school, and this guy was an adult. He was clearly excited, as well, and his expression lacked the sneer I was used to. For the record, my appearance at the time probably didn’t help matters (probably responsible for the rest of the "unfortunate" adjective). I realize now I did my best to be as different from the norm as possible: my long, straight hair was dyed a brittle blue-black and hung from its four inch strip down the middle of my skull in a swirling tumble, shifting occasionally to reveal the oft-shaved area underneath. It took effort to maintain my deathlike pallor with powder, black eyeliner, black clothing (save my oversized white Cure t-shirt), and very little sleep.

"Death," however, in this case was not an insult; I soon discovered that she was actually a comic book hero spun off the Sandman series. Later that evening I paged through the books and glanced up at the posters the clerk forced me to take (waving away any money I offered). The physical resemblance was clear—I looked exactly like that inky chick—but the weirdest part was our oddly-conflicting personalities matched, too. Given that her name was Death and she looked much like I described myself above, one might expect her to be a little on the dark and gloomy side; in fact, she was sweet-natured and friendly. The only thing she had that I lacked was confidence among peers. Reading about Death was a brief bright spot in an otherwise troubled four-year existence. I lived vicariously through her everyday adventures. The comic was less fantasy than an outlet for reality, sometimes a truer version, sometimes a better version. The illustrations were balanced by the same type of thought-provoking narration that Alison Bechdel brings us in Fun Home.

Bechdel’s latest book whisked me back fifteen years to my near-Death experience. Fun Home is the latest book for the talented Dykes to Watch Out For artist (oh to have read that in high school!). It’s a journal of sorts, perhaps a narrative reflection in both words and pictures of the author’s complex relationship with her closeted father. As I read it (absorbed it, really, I was fascinated by the book), I was struck by the numerous literary references, the parallels between her, her father, or their relationship and the greatest authors and characters in history. Bechdel’s father was an English teacher (it supplemented the family mortician business he maintained on the side) and their common love of books was the one thing that allowed them to communicate with each other, especially after the author came out to her parents. The unique medium for the book (narrated comic strips featuring her signature character) allows Bechdel to further delve into the analogous Fitzgerald/Gatsby, Daedalus, and Camus.

She carefully reveals the small secrets that destroyed her father: his predilection for his hunky teenage students, his obsession with restoring their mid-1800s home, his passionless relationship with his wife: "My father began to seem morally suspect to me long before I knew that he actually had a dark secret. He used his skillful artifice not to make things, but to make things appear to be what they were not. That is to say, impeccable." Bechdel’s father dies young, leaving questions about both his life and his death (Bechdel speculates that he committed suicide).

Bechdel’s work is genius: it deserves to be read several times to fully grasp the significance of a well-read and reflective author working in a format that enhances the engaging story she is compelled to tell.