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Here's about the first 2/3 of a new piece. Thoughts, comments, nudges--any and all feedback is appreciated and will help me get this "done." (As much as it ever will be!)

Falling in love with Superman (or, Why Superman is my hero again)

“This one, Mama. I want this one,” Dante said.

I turned away from the shelf where a collection of Leo Leonini’s artsy children’s books had been lovingly displayed by a bookstore employee.

He was holding a cheaply produced little paperback number, flashing its vivid primary colors. Superman and the Mayhem of Metallo. The cover pictured the man of steel pummeling a giant, grimacing cyborg.

It looked violent. I stalled.

“Are you sure, honey? Look at this one. It’s called Swimmy.” I flipped through a few pages’ worth of dreamy sea creatures.

But nothing could compete with Superman’s red cape and muscles. Dante’s eyes were locked on its pages.

“Mama, read it,” he commanded. And I did—reluctantly so—pausing every sentence or two to contemplate editing the roughest parts. In it, Lex Luthor commands the evil cyborg, Metallo to smash through Metropolis in an attempt to lure Superman. Little does the man of steel know that Metallo has a heart of kryptonite. Mwhaa! ha! ha! Superman is down for the count, and everything appears hopeless. Lex Luthor looks on from the penthouse in his corporate tower, laughing at Superman in his weakened state and anticipating world domination. But then! Batman makes a special guest appearance and tasers the robot into submission until Superman can regain his strength. They hurl the short-circuited metal man into space and lock Lex in a maximum security prison.

From the way Dante sat—barely breathing, eyes unblinking, his small, warm body leaning into me at the scarier parts—I knew there was no arguing, no persuasion possible, no contest. And it had all started so innocently too. A rainy Sunday afternoon. We were both bored, and Dante, three-years old, was catapulting off the furniture for fun. “Let’s go to Powell’s! You can pick a new book out!” I imagined myself browsing the literature section while Dante sat cross-legged with a new Richard Scarry book. Never did I contemplate the possibility that he could fall in love.

We bought the book and Dante scanned its pages in his car seat, all the way home.
Over the next week, we read that book—a lot.

And over that time, a very curious thing started to happen. I started liking it.

I could really chew on sentences like “The Dark Knight zaps the cyborg. Zzzzzzzakrk!” Way better than Goodnight Moon, with its bland bowl of mush!

I was loving the language, as lean and powerful as the superheroes were drawn. Taut words, sentences that hurled forward with a staccato of consonants: “Batman throws flash bombs at the metallic monster, trying to blind him. “Aah, my eyes!” yells Metallo.”

Dante had a thousand questions.

“Mama, what’s heat-ray vision?”
“Why aren’t Superman and Lex Luthor friends?”
“What’s a cyborg?”
“Mama, what’s an alter ego?”

I answered each one with pleasure—feeling like I was part scientist, part magician, part poet—explaining each of Superman’s superpowers. His freezing breath and x-ray vision, super speed and super strength, the fact that he can fly but Batman needs a plane. Together we inspect Batman’s utility belt, trying to pinpoint the pocket in which he stows his Bat taser.

I grow nostalgic for the Superman of my youth: the hunky Christopher Reeves version and find myself delighted that I can stream the movie on Netflix. It’s a special event in our house—movie night! Dante and I snuggle under a blanket while the opening credits roll by.

I forget how long the first part of the movie is. Kal-El’s home planet of Krypton, his childhood in Kansas, his angsty trek to the arctic circle to build his Fortress of Solitude. Dante asks me every five minutes when Superman’s going to show up. He is not satisfied when I keep telling him Clark Kent is Superman. I consider bailing on the movie—maybe he’s just too young. But we stick it out and the awe on his face at the first glimpse of Superman in his red and blue super suit with the underpants on the outside makes the barrage of questions worth it.

…Despite my gung-ho attitude, I’m still conflicted about the violence. There is no way around it. But more significant, this is the first time my son is exposed to that fact that some people are bad on purpose. And though Superman and Batman are the good guys, it’s hard for him to tell the difference—they use their fists and superpowers just like the bad guys. It feels odd, but I decide it would feel odder—dishonest even—to soften it. We are talking about superheroes, sure, but my boy need facts. There are bad guys in the world who steal money, destroy things, hurt others. And sometimes the good guys are just as scary.