The Night Gwen Stacy Died (And My Childhood with Her)

I've told this story many times before, but it's one of those that shaped my childhood the most.

When I was three or four years old, my mother would buy me comics. I couldn't read yet, but I would look at the drawings, recognize the characters, and become fascinated by these illustrated stories. They were the comics of Stan Lee, Jack Kirby, Gerry Conway, Gene Colan, John Romita, and Gil Kane—great names that, to me, defined an era. Their work in the comic book world was a fundamental part of my childhood.

I would grab the comics without knowing how to read and constantly pester my mother, asking, "What does it say here? And here?" I got confused by the speech bubbles and didn't know in what order to read them. But my mom, with infinite patience, explained everything to me. Thanks to that, before I even started school, I could already read fluently—not because someone formally taught me, but because I NEEDED to know what was happening in the comics. I wanted to understand what the characters were saying.

I loved everything about them: the panels, the illustrations, the visual storytelling. I became completely addicted. I learned to read through Spider-Man, The Fantastic Four, The Avengers, Daredevil (which, at the time, was translated as Diabólico), and national comics like Fantomas or Kalimán.

I remember those trips to Mercado Juárez with my mom. Every time she went downtown, I would beg her, "Take me to Mercado Juárez!" I would save up money and buy piles of used comics for just a few cents. I would get home with a massive stack and devour them in my room. Until one day, years later, the rain ruined them—or rather, my mom decided to get rid of them. It still hurts.

But those comics shaped my childhood. And not just that. They shaped me forever.

To this day, I tell my wife and daughters: "The night Gwen Stacy died was a before and after for me." That comic. That story. That sequence. Something changed forever after reading it.

In the U.S., it was published in 1973. I read it when I was four or five, in the early '80s. I didn’t fully understand what was happening, but I felt the impact. For starters, I was in love with Gwen Stacy. She was the perfect girl—beautiful, intelligent, the ideal girlfriend for Peter Parker. It was incredible that she, the prettiest one, would fall for the shy, nerdy, scrawny guy. As a kid, as a skinny, awkward boy, I thought: "If Peter Parker could win her over... maybe I have a chance too."

And then, when Gwen Stacy died, my world collapsed.

They say that was the moment comics stopped being just for kids and started speaking to teenagers and adults. Marvel was already moving in that direction, reflecting real life in its stories: Peter Parker struggling with homework, falling asleep from exhaustion, broke, selling photos to the Daily Bugle to survive. Tony Stark was an alcoholic. Harry Osborn was a drug addict. X-Men tackled racism. Black Panther addressed oppression in Africa. The Fantastic Four portrayed a real family dynamic. The Invisible Woman fought to be acknowledged in a world that ignored women. Marvel had that human connection. Its characters were relatable, flawed, full of problems. And Stan Lee knew it.

But Gwen Stacy's death was something else.

It was the end of innocence.

Norman Osborn, the Green Goblin, had lost his memory. He didn’t remember he was a villain. But his life was falling apart—his business was failing, his son was a drug addict, his mind on the verge of collapse. And when he finally remembered who he was, he decided to take revenge in the worst way possible: by hurting Peter Parker where it would hurt the most.

He kidnapped Gwen Stacy and took her to a bridge in New York. During the fight, the Green Goblin threw her off. Desperate, Peter Parker shot his web to catch her. And he did. But something was wrong. Her head tilted in a strange way. A sharp snap! echoed in the panel.

Gwen Stacy was dead.

Did she die from the fall? Or was it the sudden stop of the web that snapped her neck?

To this day, the debate continues. Science says that someone falling from that height could die from the impact, but also that such an abrupt stop could have been fatal. The point is, Peter Parker tried to save her… and killed her.

Stan Lee, in his memoirs, said he didn’t find out about the decision until it was too late. He was about to travel to Europe when Gerry Conway, John Romita, and Gil Kane told him, "We're going to kill Gwen Stacy." And in a rush, he replied, "Do whatever you want."

When he came back, the first thing he said was, "How could you kill Gwen Stacy? Bring her back!" But his writers and artists refused. "If we bring her back, Marvel will lose credibility," they told him. And Stan Lee had to accept it.

Gwen Stacy's death became a historic moment in comics.

The original idea, they say, was to kill Aunt May, who was always on the verge of death. But getting rid of her would mean taking away that constant suffering that made Peter Parker human. Then, they considered Mary Jane, since at that time, she was just a minor character with no real importance. But her charisma grew so much that they couldn't get rid of her.

Then someone proposed: "What if we kill Gwen Stacy?"

And so it happened.

Her death changed everything. It became the ultimate proof that superheroes couldn't reveal their identities—because they put their loved ones in danger. Spider-Man was never the same. No one was safe anymore. We were witnesses and accomplices to one of the most iconic deaths in comic book history.

The night Gwen Stacy died marked the end of an era.

And for me, it marked the end of childhood.