By L. Crystal Michallet-Romero
Copyright © May 2002
All Rights Reserved
Major, Major Disclaimer: Any similarities or resemblances of any character(s) in this story to any people in real life, either living or
dead, are purely coincidental!
Rated: NC-17
Violence: Scenes of violence from a governmental agency against illegal immigrants and citizens of the U.S.
As a child our mornings were filled with an orderly chaos of frantic activity. The whirlwind movements of my mother would
moved through the kitchen, her precise actions assured that each of us had a healthy breakfast right before we began our
school day. While my family ate at the small kitchen table, I would steal away with my cereal bowl in hand to the television in
our living room. It never occurred to me that I was doing something wrong, because no one had ever given my absence any
thoughts. So rather than worry about the activities in the kitchen, I would sit eating my hot rice cereal as my eyes were glued
to the Spiderman cartoon.
Spiderman was my hero. He could climb buildings through the webs in his wrists. I remember how my afternoons were filled
with make believe fantasies of climbing up tall sky scrapers, the webs of my hands easily gripping the cold steel as I made my
way toward the damsels in distress. My games would go like this until either the school bell rang, or my mother called me in
to dinner. Once my make believe game was shattered I would go reluctantly into the world of reality, yet my mind was
always focused on the superhuman abilities of Spiderman.
My grandmother always said that spiders were good creatures. Without them, the bugs would eat away at her precious
garden. Spiders within the house were an especially good omen because it showed that the spider goddess had deemed our
home worthy of her presence. This combined with my favorite cartoon only made me want to be more like Spiderman. Day
after day I would sit in the corner wherever I found the crystalline webs and talk with the arachnid that had spun the magical
puzzle. Yet no matter how many conversations I had shared, I was never graced with gifts that would help me scale buildings
like Spiderman. A part of me was upset by this, but another part understood after a conversation I had with my father.
“Meja, there can only be one family member who’s a superhero,” my father had explained. At his words, my eyes grew wide
as I tried to figure out who the superhero was.
My grandmother was a curandera, a healer and a wise woman who had special knowledge and gifts that were inherited from
our ancestors. She could stand still and hear the wind speak to her of the coming storms, or listen to the sounds of the
animals nearby and know when an illness would cross her door. She was gifted with dreams and was able to interpret when
a family member would be passing into the next world. With a soft and silent wisdom, she could delicately pick the greenness
of her garden, knowing exactly which herb would rid a baby of colic, or cure an old man’s heart palpitations and although she
had these special gifts and abilities, she was also knowledgeable in the ways of the world.
Being born and raised of status in Mexico, she was the only person in our family who had acquired a degree from Mexico
University. Because of this, she could tell me stories about the ancient warrior tribes of our ancestors, and the brave battles
of the Mexican people. What had been tales as a child, I later learned were historical injustices that had happened to the
people of Mexico. Despite her great abilities, I had never witness her climbing buildings or flying through the air, so I knew
she could not be the super hero of our family.
My abuelo, my grandfather was a man with a loud laugh and equally boisterous voice. Despite his laughter, I knew that there
could be a fiercely protective nature within him. Whenever there was a family member physically threatened, he would never
hesitate to throw himself in front of them to protect and ward off the attacker. Although I knew that this giving spirit could
mark him as a superhero, my father would not confirm my suspicion.
One by one I would give a name and wait for my father’s confirmation, yet it never came. If it was not grandma, and it was
not abuelo, my grandfather, then who could it be, I asked. From all of my tia’s and tio’s, there was none who fit the bill.
When it seemed that I would never know, my father finally released a knowing smile that conveyed everything to me.
My father who would be gone when I awoke in the mornings, and return late at night had released his most cherished secret
and in superhero fashion, swore me to secrecy. The answers I had sought out were finally clear to me. My father was the
superhero in our family, but he was not my beloved Spiderman, nor my grandmother’s hero, The Green Hornet, no, my father
was able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. He was faster than a speeding bullet, he was Superman, and it all suddenly
became clear.
I had always known through family tales that my father was once a paramedic and fire fighter in Nebraska. When he and my
mother moved from a predominantly Hispanic community in Nebraska, to the all white town of Chico, my father’s skill and
knowledge were no aid in getting him hired with the fire department. The jobs he took from then onward were a mystery to
me. But now I knew the secret that my father kept.
From that day forward I saw my father in a different light. When he would crack walnut shells in his biceps, it was only a
demonstration of strength. On the days when he came home late at night, his work clothes dirty, boots covered in mud, I
knew that he had been saving the world. There were days when he had to miss an event at school because of his job, but I
was never upset because I was knew that there was no other choice. Being a super hero sometimes meant that unexpected
events that put people in danger would happened and he would be compelled to stay and help, as any superhuman would do.
The day my father met with Kryptonite was the day when I felt complete fear. Up until that day, my father was invincible. He
was the strongest man I knew, so to see him stumbling into our home, his clothes dirty and torn, a gash in his head that would
later require stitches sent a chill through my child’s soul.
They had arrived in massive numbers, I heard my father say as my grandmother shooed the children from the room. Ignoring
her words, I hid under a table, watching and listening as my mother held a kitchen towel over his gaping wound. My
grandmother moved through the house, disappearing only once to gather her healing items. As my mother fought back tears,
my father began his tale that I would never fully understand until I was an adult.
My father was fluent in both English and Spanish which made him a wanted commodity in the local sugar factory. As the
lead, he was responsible for interpreting the bosses orders to the working crews. On this day, la migra, immigration had
raided the factory where he worked. Without forewarning, the uniformed men entered the factory wearing military style
helmets, wielding batons.
In the confusion, the men were running through the factory like rats jumping from a sinking ship. My father had entered the
foray in hopes that immigration would stop swinging their batons. Instead, he ran head first into the wielding uniform. All it
took was one swing to bring my father down. Had he not looked up at the uniformed officer and spoke in clear English, a
second blow would have followed the first.
La migra took most of the workers that day and after they determined that my father was legal, he was allowed to leave. For
a few days he was not required to go into work, not because of his injury, but because the factory did not have enough
workers to keep the factory opened. In time, when they were able to find more hands, my father would be able to return to
work.
I never knew this story until years later. All I knew as I huddled under the table was that my father, my hero, Superman, was
no longer invincible. He had battled against the Kryptonite of La Migra and lost. For the first time, I realized that my father
could get hurt. The blood that had soaked his work shirt and continued to trickle down his forehead was enough to make me
realize that my father was not invincible. I began to question all that I had known to be true.
If my father, Superman, was not real, then Spiderman did not exist and the superhero’s who fought against the injustices of
the world were powerless against the agencies of this government. Knowing this brought the realization that no matter how
hard I tried, there would be no way for me to acquire the magic of Spiderman. In my own child’s way, I learned that
Superhero’s only existed like the myths of the ancients and there was no one who would battle against the injustices of man.
From that day forward, within my eyes my father could no longer fly higher than the tallest buildings or race faster than a
speeding bullet. Strangely enough, he was transformed into a mortal man on that day. He could bleed, weep and fear for the
safety of his children.
