Heroes and Superheroes

New marriage. New job. New baby. New movie.

The bride and groom stand face-to face, holding hands, on the steps of their house.

He wears a white oxford shirt and khaki pants. She wears a stretchy black dress, visibly pregnant. We watch from white chairs on the front lawn with 75 wedding guests.

Behind wafts the smell of grilled meat. In front of us, a man in a pink shirt and sunglasses speaks Spanish in an Argentine accent to a woman in a beige dress. As the bride and groom exchanges rings and vows, Jess and I squeeze hands, reaffirming our own vows.

Two months ago, the groom and I swam across the Hudson River. Two weeks later, he swam with Navy SEALS from the Statue of Liberty to the World Trade Center. This morning, I swam at the gym for the third time in five days; the new regimen has helped reduce stress and anxiety from my new job as a Spanish teacher. In the locker room, I chatted with a Cuban guy after I heard him speaking Spanish to the attendant about the new shampoo he's refilling in the shower stall soap dispensers: Rosemary Lavender.  ¡Que olor tan rico!

After the ceremony, we join the Argentine man and his American wife for dinner.  He and I speak Spanish. The women speak English. We trade family histories: His Jewish ancestors migrated from Eastern Europe to Argentina before and during World War II. My Catholic ancestors migrated from Italy and Ireland to New York in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. Like me, he also plays tennis, runs, bikes, and swims—and suggests I try a triathlon. After an hour of intense and animated conversation, I feel like I’ve met a kindred spirit.

Students spill into the classroom, toting backpacks and binders, and fill the chairs around an oval wooden table. Silence. 

“Bienvenidos, chicos,” I say. “Soy tu nuevo profesor.”

At first, I’m anxious. I am not a native speaker or a heritage speaker. Until now, I have never taught a class in Spanish. But I do know how to teach. First, I learn the students’ names and their hobbies and interests. Then we discuss articles about various Latin music genres, like merengue, bachata, and reggaetón. Finally, we watch a video of Becky G and Danny Lux performing “Cries in English” at NPR’S Tiny Desk Concert. Despite the title, the song is sung in Spanish. We listen three times: Once to get the gist; twice for more details; and a third time to nail the various verb tenses. By the end of class, my anxiety has abated and the students seem more comfortable.

Learning a language, like learning anything, takes patience, persistence, and practice.

On Sunday morning, I hold my newborn nephew. Pink face, eyes scrunched shut, swaddled in a white blanket with red and blue stripes.  We’re in the family visiting room of the maternity ward of a suburban hospital. While I cradle the baby in the crook of my elbow, my brother and sister-in-law recount the story of her labor and delivery.  The baby twitches, scowls, then stills. My son fiddles with a Rubik’s cube. I remember his birth in vivid detail, but it feels unfathomable that he was ever so tiny and helpless. After a while, I pass the baby back to my brother and spread cream cheese on a bagel.

Hours later, we’re at the theater to celebrate another family milestone: a new documentary about a man’s journey from fictional superhero to everyday hero.

Actor Christopher Reeve played Superman in the blockbuster movies from the 1970s and 1980s. In 1995, a horse-riding accident left Reeve paralyzed from the neck down. The Man of Steel spent the rest of his life in a wheelchair on a ventilator.

I wanted to see Super/Man because I have fond memories of the Superman movies—and wore Superman pajamas as a kid—and because my brother is one of the film’s executive producers.

Obviously, Super/Man is a sad story.  The contrast between Reeve as young superhero and Reeve as middle-aged quadriplegic is brutal. Yet neither Reeve nor his family wallow in grief or despair. Instead, they seem to summon the requisite resilience and courage to endure. Reeve, his wife Dana, and his children leverage the actor’s star power and grit to become activists for the disabled, raising money, awareness, and empathy for an often marginalized community.

Among many potent moments, one stands out. Reflecting on his life, Reeve says he once defined himself as an avid athlete (skier, sailor, equestrian) and world traveler. After the accident, he realizes that those activities mattered far less than the quality of his relationships.

Now, in the theater, while the final credits of Super/Man roll, an older man with arm braces stands from his seat and, with his wife by his side, makes his way to the door.