The American teen in comics.

According to the USHistory Org site, in the 19th century we didn't have teenagers. We had children and adults: 

Most Americans tried their best to allow their children to enjoy their youth while they were slowly prepared for the trials and tribulations of adulthood. Although child labor practices still existed, more and more states were passing restrictions against such exploitation. The average number of years spent in school for young Americans was also on the rise. Parents were waiting longer to goad their youngsters into marriage rather than pairing them off at the tender age of sixteen or seventeen. In short, it soon became apparent that a new stage of life — the TEENAGE phase — was becoming a reality in America. American adolescents were displaying traits unknown among children and adults. Although the word teenager did not come into use until decades later, the teenage mindset dawned in the 1920s.

Thus, the invention of teenage--a term Merriam-Webster dates to 1912--that would evolve into the concept of the teenager.

It's generally thought that World War II and its draft age really cemented the idea of the under-18s as kids in Western thought, but everyone knew that an adult-size person with the ability to breed was no kid. Seventeen magazine was founded in 1944, and off we went.

The most famous teenager in comic books has got to be Archie Andrews, who first appeared in Pep Comics issue 22 in 1941. The publisher had hoped to appeal to fans of Mickey Rooney's Andy Hardy film series, which had itself begun in 1928. But the success of Archie and his friends and spinoffs had plenty of imitators. For example, Fawcett, first home of the original (ONLY REAL) Captain Marvel, tried its hand on kooky teenage kapers with Ozzie and Babs.

The book followed what had quickly become the standard for teenage comedy -- goofy boy inclined to comedic accidents loves gorgeous babe who is occasionally the cause or victim of said accidents as well, with plots driven by silly schemes, academic distress, or dopey misunderstandings. This was the portrait of the American teen, as encountered in film, in books, on radio, in comics, and later on TV. Max Shulman's The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis (1951) was possibly the exemplar of the field, having started as a book, been filmed in 1953, turned to TV in 1959, and became a DC comic book in 1960. 

Archie's other imitators included DC's Buzzy, Marvel's Oscar, and Tippy Teen and Andy and Dudley and Freddy and on and on. These comics were aimed at genuine children, but other teen comedy products like Dobie Gillis were meant for a general audience. 

But while Archie Andrews and Dobie Gillis conquered the world, fate was not so kind to Ozzie and Babs. Their book only ran for two years, totaling just 13 issues. Funny books were as thick on the ground as superhero books in the late 40's, and I guess they just couldn't break into the big time. 

That said, I love this cover:

Mainly, I think, because I want to put this tag by Babs on the cover of my next novel!

But the big question is, to my mind, what happened to the American teenager? In the period before the sixties, they were mainly considered troublesome, but on the whole exactly what one would expect--children trying to learn how to become adults. Was that always a myth? 

Because it persisted in popular culture into about the mid-seventies, and then teenagers were suddenly revealed to be the most awful, feral, disrespectful, dangerous, uncontrollable little Satan spawn that could be imagined. I'm sure that was always true for some of them, but did the stories of the rotten ones, the JDs, the gang members, the punks, the greasers, the mean girls, and so on, inspire the Archies and Ozzies of the world to become asshats? Was this all the fault of Dr. Spock and parents losing their authority? The collapse of respect for authority in general through the postwar decades? The loss of faith in God and country and the elevation of respect for outlandish and even criminal behavior? 

These aren't easy questions. I remember trying hard to be one of the good kids, and drinking beer and getting in trouble anyway. By and large, though, I would rather have grown up with Ozzie and Babs than the creeps and thugs in my high school, even if it meant crashing through the occasional car window or bowling alley wall. I feel now that there was a golden era of teenhood that lasted from the first Andy Hardy film to the last episode of Dobie Gillis in 1963, and is never to be found again.