This week took a decidedly unexpected turn for me. I write to you from Seattle, in the house of my brother-in-law, consoling him any way I can for the loss of his daughter. More on that later.
I called upon my writer friends for some help putting out my weekly blog post, and my friend Orin (the prince) came through for me. Please enjoy his writings and offer him your support at thewritespirit.com
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Have you heard of the real Super Girl living in the town of George, Washington? Town might be too ambitious of a name, although their website declares them the City of George, Washington, their top stories include two headlines about a new well and a sidewalk – important issues for the 501 residents. The town was started by a man named Brown and its streets are named after cherries. Somewhere in this Americana rural charm lives Super Girl. She doesn’t fly, at least not yet, she either lost her cape or has yet to find it under a tree at Christmas. The world may never know her, hidden as she where most cars whiz by at 75 miles an hour, but I do. I know Super Girl.
She ripped her hand open carrying a box of books through a metal door frame built before modern safety codes. She sat thru music, library, and a math lesson before she told me, her teacher, that she needed to talk about something. I forgot, and she did not complain. She reminded me before recess with tears in her eyes and she showed me her hand. Pink and red glared from her gashed brown skin. It was a nasty cut, a true wound. That was December of last year.
Today, she was reading to me and I noticed her hand.
“What happened there?”
“You know.” She replied.
“I remember you told me, but I forgot.” I lied.
Her hand had a pale series of scars running from the knuckle of her index finger down towards her wrist. It looked like old warts or a childhood mishap with some nasty chemical. I felt bad for the pain that must have caused her, and the embarrassment that I didn’t remember those scars before.
“You know,” she told me again. “I hurt my hand going to library.” She looked at me like I was her grandfather at a mental health clinic.
I didn’t know what to say, so I told her the truth.
“You were so brave that day.” I said. She looked embarrassed. Super heroes don’t like the attention. Like the supporting actor in a Hollywood summer flick I asked, “Are you a super hero?”
She smiled, dipped her chin, and shook her head ‘No’, her black braids moving gently against her coat.
I remembered when I I asked her what she wanted for Christmas. She wouldn’t answer, so I asked again. “She looked at me in her strong, shy way and said, “Nothing.” OK. I thought, no need to press, but I was curious. Later, as chance and Hollywood superhero scripts would have it, I was walking down the hall with her.
“Come on.” I said. “You must want something for Christmas.”
She looked at me with her strong-but-I-am-about-to-cry eyes and said, “I would really like to talk to my grandparents in Mexico. They are my dad’s parents. I have never met them I would really like to talk to them on the phone.”
Not knowing what to say, and being generally stupid I said, “Well, maybe Santa will be able to bring you something nice.” It was a running commentary in my room as “Santa” was going to bring them something during lunch on the last day of school before Christmas break. Being smart, my whole class knew it was me.
“Are you going to call my grandparents?” she asked with a glint of hope.
I am no superhero. “No.” I said. We walked in silence.
She bought a Christmas ornament with school tickets that she earned.
“Look at what I bought today,” she said as she came in the room after recess. “An ornament!”
“Wow! Give that to your mom for your Christmas tree.”
“Our house is too small for a tree, but one day we will have our own house. My mom says when that happens we will have our own tree and it will be big!” Super Girl is always optimistic, and that is why she has yet to find her cape.
The girls come in from recess and their hands are freezing from playing in the cold. Iceberg, Antarctic, dying from hypothermia after the Titanic sunk kind of cold. They rush to me with smiles showing off how cold their hands are, challenging the other girls to have colder hands then they have. I am the judge. They touch my forehead and cheeks, and I realize I have a room full of Super Girls.
I tell them each how brave they are, and teach them how to warm their hands. It’s a daily ritual, so they have heard it all before, but it doesn’t matter. That is how superhero scripts go.
I know Super Girl. Scars tell of healed but remembered wounds. Cold hands tell of adventures survived. Some things are hidden, and some things are seen.
There is a hero in George, Washington, population 501. I think, though, that there are heroes disguised as boys and girls in many places. Hidden, shy, and wonderful. Seek them out. Your life will be changed forever.
