...

I cry when no one's looking.

-Jen

Seeking Superman

I don't know what I expected... But, I never dreamed that I would find Superman.

As a child, I often looked for him. And when finding that the hero within my life was actually the villain, I suspected that Superman... was me. Shortly after, I figured that I was just a weak, insignificant citizen. But, I later realized that I was a bit off. Sure, I was a bit needy, but I was headstrong and steadfast. I was determined, though I often fell prey to villainous foes. 

Still, Superman never came for me. I soon believed that there was no such man. There was no such entity who would swoop in when I needed him most and save me from the destruction and chaos--the twisted, metal wreck which was my life.

It was my job to save myself. There was no "super" man. There was only me. And, that's how it would always be. 

But instead of saving myself, I decided to rescue everyone else. 

What a heady feeling to know you're needed--to feel relied upon--to feel essential. How tiring it is to always answer when you're called--to always go forth when you're needed--to stretch a helping hand beyond its natural reach. This is what Superman must feel like.

Eventually, my determination subsided.
I was only human.
My will to endure waned. 

I never dreamed that I would search for Superman only to find that he did not exist--or, rather, he did exist in minuscule doses, living vicariously through liars and villains with welcoming smiles and trusting faces. 

For my own sake, I changed tactics... I found Spider-man, but realized that I could not be his Mary Jane. 
Batman arrived. And, I was smitten. Sadly, he was not.
Either way, we didn't mesh. It was like... I belonged to an entirely different universe. 

As of late, I've come across someone else. He has his flaws, but--there is something about him that I cannot shake. I know that he's no superhero and that he could never be. But, I don't care... He fits me.

All this time, I've been chasing an idea--seeking Superman, only to find... Clark.

"Tall" Tales.

     I hated peas. I hated squash. I hated tomatoes. And, I wasn't too partial to broccoli in those days. I wasn't too happy about eating my veggies, but my mother made sure I sat still  until I did. 
     "You will be short if you don't eat them--!" she'd say. "You're not moving one inch until you finish it--!" she'd continue on. 
     So, I got into the habit of holding my nose, scooping a spoonful of food, and swallowing it whole. I ate the green, leafy stuff. My mother was pleased. 
     Years later, I'm still no taller than five-feet one-inch. Vegetables don't make you tall, mom.

-Jen (:

Bike Chains and Tall Hills.

     A few days ago, I hopped on a bright-green bike and rode through the countryside. The September wind  tore through my raven hair, and the sunset was soft upon my skin. I smiled. The air, sprinkled with mist and powdered with chimney smoke, was cool. And, I was content.

     When I got onto that bike and raced down the road, I was quickly spirited away into my childhood... I would hop on my bike--pink and white with little purple and pink streamers hanging from the handle bars--and I would pedal as quickly as I could. Whenever I'd reach the top of the hill, there was a point in which my heart stopped and my stomach fluttered... And then, I'd slowly begin my descent. 
     The hill would decline for seconds, moments--my heart would fly into my throat--and then triumphantly I'd reach the base of the hill at such extreme speed that my heart would quickly drop into the pit of my stomach. And tragically, my bike chain would pop.
     I'd slide down from my bike and walk it back up the hill. And then, once I've reached the top, I'd pull over onto the side of the road, pull up the kickstand, and pop my bike chain back into place. And then, I'd ride my bike back home, happily zigging and zagging in and out of the road all the way there.

...The only difference these days is that I rode my bike back up the hill. And, my bike chain is much more sturdy.

Marshmallows over an Open Flame.

     My mother never had much money to do what she would have liked to do for us. But, she made due. And, we never fully realized how much she improvised. The things she did to make up for what we didn't have just seemed... well, normal. And, I'm certain that I didn't know it wasn't normal until I observed other people doing those same things differently.
     We didn't eat much candy growing up. Families with extra spending money had that luxury. We didn't. So, my mother would buy marshmallows---before your mind runs rampant with all the possibilities and creations that one could concoct with a handful of marshmallows, please remember this one thing: We only had the marshmallows. No chocolate. No graham crackers. No thin, wooden stakes on which to "roast" them over an open fire outdoors.
     My mom would go to the store, buy a bag of jumbo marshmallows, and when she'd get home, she'd gather us around the stove, turn on the eye, and hand us each a metal fork. Then, she'd demonstrate--
     She placed a marshmallow on the end of her fork and our eyes quickly became alight with awe... The marshmallow expanded--and, it expanded some more--and then, she removed it and bit--! Oh, how eager we were to try what she had done!
     She was pleased with our elation at her simple "magic trick." She then placed a marshmallow on the tips of each of our forks and carefully watched as we cooed and gasped and beamed brightly at the expanding white pillows of gooey sugar on the tips of our own forks.
     For years, I sincerely thought that everyone ate marshmallows this way... And then, at school... I learned of s'mores.

Sixth Grade

     My sixth grade teacher once told me that I was poor, and I'd never have anything. To be fair, we were poor. Dirt poor. A few of us students were. But, our families managed. And, no one ever talked about it--at least not in such a harsh way.

     Nonetheless, she was so irate because I refused to accept old clothing from her--clothing she thought was far better than my own. 

     Either way, she said it in front of the entire 6th grade class. I recall hushed giggles and faint gasps... That day, I decided to stay in class rather than go to lunch. I used that time to cry. 

     I recently told my mother of this. She was outraged--because days later, as it turns out, that same teacher bypassed me and politely gave the clothing to my mother.

     "I wish I had known that at the time--" my mother said in a huff. "And to think, I accepted them hoping to spare her the embarrassment of rejection--!"

-Jen

The Slumber Party

     I was invited to a slumber party. Once. I had never been to one before, and I wanted so badly to go. 
     Even though my mom said I could, I tip-toed around it all day. About an hour before the sleepover was to begin, I told my mother I didn't want to go. And, I went to bed.
     No one ever knew why I decided not to go. Truth is, I was mortified. I thought that if I went, I'd wet the bed.
     Consequently, there were many other slumber parties to follow. Seeing as how I missed the first, I wasn't invited to any of the others, of course. 
     As a result, those same girls who invited me to the initial sleepover bullied me throughout elementary school.