Maybe this IS a grief journal...

A death of a colleague, and a foundational memory.

I don’t take death very well. Not that there’s any way to handle death like a champ, but the experience of losing a person can knock me down pretty good. Years ago, I was at the wake of a friend, tremendous tears falling out of my eyes over a guy I’d gone on a few dates with and then kept in very casual touch with before his untimely demise. My reaction came as a shock to the people around me, but I knew this would happen. No matter what shape someone takes in my life, the permanence of their death quakes me.

There are a couple drafts in my substack that circle around the themes of death and grief that I keep there because I roll my eyes thinking “not another post about dead things.” As I enter the second year of grieving my dog Henry, I make peace with really never being over it. My friend’s husband died in his sleep a few months ago, and I got lost thinking about how we’re all on a merry-go-round, trying to enjoy the ride for what it is, and not think too hard on what happens to the people when they fall off. With the recent death of a friend in comics, I may have found a means of eulogizing rather than falling into the spiral of pointless rambling.

Elena Salcedo passed away last week. My heart breaks for her partner Dan Petersen, her co-workers at Top Cow, and her friends in the comic industry. She loved hard, and gave 110% to her passions, as anyone who’s spent time with her at a convention can tell you. Her home with Dan was full of comics, original art, and collectibles. Even after many years and countless hours spent “making the cookies,” Elena still had that excited gleam in her eye when she’d share peeks of Marc Silvestri art that no one else had seen off her phone (not to everyone, just me). My first love in comics was Michael Turner’s Top Cow art, which led to a several-year editorial internship at the company. Elena totally got what was cool about those comics, and like me, she made it her life.

Now, to be a little blunt: she could also hold a grudge like nobody’s business. Elena got SUPER pissed at me over a drunken exchange like a decade ago. I apologized every which way I could, gave space for her to air out grievances, and did my best to bury the hatchet so we could move forward… but I knew. Deep down, I knew she held onto that social infraction, and wouldn’t ever forgive it. Our social circles were still tethered together by decades-spanning friendships, so she always was nice with me when we’d hang out… but I knew.

I bring this up not to try and get any last word, but as a context to understand one of my most important memories with Elena.

It was the Sunday night after San Diego Comic-Con wrapped up in 2018. I had been invited by Marvel Comics to promote the return of my Iceman series. After being kicked out and invited back into “the club,” I was determined to do everything right: I would be an excellent company man and shine on panels, I would hobknob at mixers, I would say “yes” to any and every opportunity that was asked of me, but most importantly, I would navigate it all as the most digestible version of f-slur I could muster. My friend Brayden had come over the week before to work out my every single outfit for when I’d be on a stage for a panel, or in front of a camera for an interview. My goal was to strike a balance in my vibe that let editors, publicists, and bigwigs know “hey, we can trust this guy to promote our brands” while letting any queer person seeing me know “hey, I can grow up and be myself and do what they’re doing.”

So, after five days of minding every word and movement my body made, when our group of friends convened for our annual Sunday night pizza meet-up, and when Elena casually asked “how was your weekend,” neither of us expected my response.

“It was good— it was hard,” I said with a smile.

“It was hard,” I restated, realizing I didn’t have to be fake anymore.

“It was really, really hard,” I said, just openly sobbing in front of her.

I couldn’t stop crying. Elena came in closer and consoled me. As I got out of brief hysterics, she calmly told me that she understood. We shared a genuine moment of healing. There’s no way I’d have felt comfortable dropping my guard and showing that level of vulnerability with the dudes in comics, but if anyone would understand just how much more effort and thought go into fitting in with what feels like an impenetrable boys club… it was Elena.

That moment meant the world to me. It didn’t squash the tension I knew was still there, but I was clearly in need, and she showed up in a profound way that gave me the strength to focus on the victory: it was hard, but I did it.

To me, that is the spirit of the comic industry. Our bonds to loving this form of storytelling and the various ways it can break our hearts supersedes any drama, beef, or bullshit between two people. If we see someone struggling, or perhaps even getting in their own way, we take a minute to show up and provide an anchoring space of humanity. In recent years, I’ve hardened a little bit in terms of giving that energy back out to people. I’ve been trying harder to keep some bonds alive (just ask Tony Fleecs, who now has to suffer through phone catchups when I drive across town to see my mom), and if someone dying too soon inspires any change in me, it should be to reach out to my friends and family in comics more often.

I’m sorry Elena’s gone. She had such a good laugh.

May she rest in peace, she certainly worked hard for it.