August, 2010
My dad, a huge comic book fan, once told me, a superhero is an ordinary person that has something extraordinary happen to them. But, what the hell did he mean by extraordinary?
extraordinary: adjective ik-strawr-dn-er-ee
adjective
- beyond what is usual, ordinary, regular, or established:extraordinary costs.
- exceptional in character, amount, extent, degree, etc.; noteworthy; remarkable:extraordinary speed; an extraordinary man.
Do only superheroes get to be extraordinary? Is it someone who can fly? Is it the fastest man on earth? Is it a super brainiac that can invent all sorts of astounding gadgets that let you fly around the world with untapped energy?
Maybe. Spiderman was an ordinary high school kid who got bitten by a radioactive spider. Then he went on to become one of the world’s greatest superheroes. Tony Stark was a brilliant scientist although still very much an ordinary man. He was selfish, a playboy, and a loner. But because something extraordinary happened to him (he was kidnapped and suffered a near fatal heart injury) he used his intellect to create a suit of armor. But he created more than a flying suit with cool gadgets. He created a sense of purpose. As Iron Man he became one of the first and greatest superheroes to defend first his country then the entire globe.
But what about ordinary kids like me? What about the Robbie McDonald’s out there?
What about the kids that are sitting right in the middle? Do we get to be extraordinary or do something extraordinary, whatever that is? We’re not super smart. So, we don’t get the attention of the principals and counselors that guide us through A.P. classes for their bragging rights to boost their college placement stats. But we’re not struggling either. So, we don’t get the extra attention of Academic Intervention. So, the teachers barely notice us.
Kids like me in the middle, we don’t even have any special mentors or coaches. Everybody assumes that everything is OK. So, we kind of get stuck on auto pilot. I’m not complaining. Sometimes I like not being in the spotlight. It gives me the room the think. But if you are in one of those special attention or high achieving groups, I wish you wouldn’t be such a dick about it. I also with our teachers and staff would realize quiet and unassuming kids like me could use a little help too.
I don’t excel at sports. I like being active. But I don’t hang out at the gym, play little league or join any teams. It never felt comfortable. I’ll stick to my skateboard and a run through the woods.
The high school in my old city was a big football school. I didn’t mind. I’ve got nothing against football. But look at me.
That’s me at an off-season football summer camp somewhere at the bottom of that pile. It’s barely 125 pounds of me getting flattened by nine 220-pound seniors. More power to them. I hope they go all the way to the State Championship again. But I learned quickly that is not where I belong.
I tried giving music a shot. I really liked it. But I didn’t know what I was doing. Our middle school band teacher was really nice. But he just didn’t have time to give us all the lessons and time we needed. If you were taking lessons on the outside, you knew what you were doing and got the good parts. Guys like me. We got a few introductory lessons on how to read music. Then we were given a rental French horn that’s been slobbered on by countless musical know nothings like me and politely banished to the back of the room.
My mother and I just moved to Seattle. My father is not in the picture. He died four years ago in a freak accident at work. He was a millwright. Somehow, he got pinned beneath a heavy machine and never recovered. He died in the hospital two days later. I barely got to see him in the hospital. I think my mom knew he was going to die. So, she didn’t want me seeing him that way. In a way I’m glad she did that. Now I remember all the good things about him. He wasn’t like other kids’ dads. He wasn’t one of those dads that took pride in the lawn and sat in a lawn chair in the driveway every summer weekend talking fertilizer and mowing patterns with the other dads. He just didn’t fit into that mold. He was always building things, fixing things. He rarely sat still. Maybe he had ADHD. I don’t know. The garage was always a mess with half-finished projects.
I remember his brother, my Uncle Jack telling me he was an ex punk rocker, whatever that means. Yeah, he did play in a band. And yeah, he actually had an album out. But that’s all that ever came from it. The best thing about that band is that’s how he met my mom. My dad and my mom’s brother, Peter, were in the band together.
My mom was just starting college. She hated their music, but she was really attracted to my dad. I could tell she loved him. Sometimes she’s so serious. And he was the exact opposite of that. So, I guess they balanced each other out. I know she really loved my dad. But you would never guess they would be attracted to each other. Now she’s a lawyer, and now he’s gone.
Ever since then my mother has definitely changed. I can tell she’s permanently sad. Maybe that’s why she applied for and took this transfer to Seattle. Maybe she needed a start over. My dad still has a brother and sister in Rochester, New York. We would see them often on summer breaks and holidays. But now that we are a few thousand miles away, I think that’s going to stop. And that makes me sad. My uncle was so much like my dad. It made me miss my dad a little more bearable.
To add even more anxiety to my life, we moved here during the first week of August, two weeks before school is scheduled to start. Not only do I have to deal with figuring out how I’m going to fit in at this new school, it’s also my first day of high school. I’m going to get my ass kicked. I just know it.
So, everything started to change on a boring Tuesday afternoon in August. I needed to get my room in order and my desk set up in time for school. My mom was meeting with her new coworkers in the city. So, I was home alone. I went to my room and started to take a whack at unpacking the tower of unpacked and half opened moving boxes.
In one of the boxes was an old photo album. Looked like it was from the 70’s with an avocado green fake leather cover. it was dusty as hell. It hadn’t been opened in years. On the front cover was a strip of faded and torn masking tape barely hanging on. The glue was so old it was barely sticking to the cover. Written in pen were the words Rochester, New York. This must have been my father’s album. I’ve never seen this around our old house. I wonder where he hid it.
I decided to blow off the other stack of boxes and take a break. I flopped down on my bed with the album and started to look through. The first few pages were all baby pictures. These had to be my dad. Every picture was a goofy baby face, always smiling, always laughing. The next few pages had his birth certificate and baptismal certificate. Then there were a few congratulations cards. The cards were happy with messages written inside. But the messages struck me as odd. “Glad you made it through ok”. “I hope you have time to get rest. You need it.” “Congratulations, I’m glad you’re ok”.
Each page slowly marched through time. With each page, I saw my dad grow a little older. Little league, first communion, 8th grade graduation, family gatherings at Christmas. First day of high school. But it struck me, in every picture he was doing something, like being on a baseball team or at a school event. But he was always alone. Didn’t he have friends? But that changed as I go towards the back of the book. These were his high school years. Now the same faces started showing up in the photos.
This must have been his squad, his gang, his team. Whatever you wanted to call them, these were his friends. And I could see something different on these pages.
Even though he was always laughing and smiling on the previous pages, here he looked… happy. The laughs were bigger. The photos had more energy. These were good times.
There are three things I could immediately tell from these old photos; these guys loved camping, they loved camping at this one lake, wherever that was, they loved camping, there was usually a lot of beer involved. I know that was against some rules, but celebrating together seemed to be part of who they were. Rules be damned.
On the second to last page, the story started making sense. These just weren’t just a group of guys he was hanging around with. This was his patrol. These were the guys he had been with since day one Tenderfoot rank. These were his boys. You could tell they had his back, and he had theirs.
On the last page of the album was a photo that blew me away. Never in a million years did I think I would see this. It was a portrait of my father. My crazy pre punk rock father. The individualist. The hyperactive man that always thumbed his nose at the way it was supposed to be done. But as a kid. I have never seen him like this. He was clean cut. Dressed up. Wearing a Boy Scout uniform. He was an Eagle Scout.
They say a picture tells a thousand words. But these didn’t. They told me to get going and start a story. They made me smile. But they also made me sad. I realized; he had something that I haven’t had yet. He founds his tribe. But here I was, alone. What the fuck? I’m not going to blame him. And I’m not going to say it’s not fair. He died. That’s not his fault. But at least he went out and made his life the way he wanted with the friends he searched for. I then realized, in this new room of mine, in this new city of mine, and at this new school of mine, it’s time for me to get to work.
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