Red Tights

My Superman Fantasy

(An imitation of “White Tigers” in Woman Warrior: Memoirs of a Girlhood Among Ghosts by Maxine Hong Kingston)

When I was a girl, I learned that when I grew up I could be a writer. Writers can change the world, and women can be writers. Although I read many stories by women writers, there were few stories about women writers. There was a story about a girl whose teacher loved her writing, but criticized her many italics, and there were others whose stories were written as diaries. I learned that women are the best writers.

When I was a child, I read the story of Lois Lane, the woman who won the love of Superman. In comics in my uncle’s house in northern BC, I devoured the story of how Lois Lane pursued the Man of Steel, at first only looking for an interview, then later seeking and winning his heart. I had once thought I wanted to be a nurse, but then I realized I wanted to write. I would have to grow up to be a writer and I would have to find a Superman.

The first time I saw him, I would think he was a bird. He would be so far away, so high. Then I would realize that he was not a bird, and I would think him to be an airplane. He would swoop low and I would realize he was a man, a man flying without wings. I would be a young journalist the day I saw my Superman fly away into the clouds. The critics would accuse me of repetition and no imagination, but I would write about only him. I would beg him for a meeting, for an interview. Every time he appeared, I would be there with a camera and a notepad. We would settle into a comfortable routine of cat and mouse.

Even when I got used to the game, I would want even more to meet him. I would not care how long he dodged me; I would not give up. Suddenly, one day, another writer — a man — would catch my Superman and interview him. A rivalry would be born.

My Superman, now exposed by my rival’s article, would come to me one day and carry me away.

* * *

The earth fell away beneath us, and I gasped and gripped his shoulders tighter. I had been on an airplane before, but this was nothing like that; here, the distance from the ground and the movement were so much more immediate.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said to me.

“I’m not afraid,” I said out of pride.

(“But it’s so high,” I would have said in real life, angry at story heroines for lying about their feelings. “I’m terrified. Do you have to fly so high? So fast?”)

“We’re almost there,” Superman said. “Relax.”

We landed on a tiny island in the middle of the ocean with salt spray crashing on the shore. Superman steadied me on the wet, slippery rocks and helped me to sit down on a drier one. We sat for a moment in silence, gazing at the sea.

“I’m sorry,” Superman said. “I’m sorry I gave your interview to Clark.”

“It’s okay,” I lied. In fact, this was the meeting I had dreamed of for so long — the interview was secondary. Being with him was better than writing a story about him. But I still resented his openness with another, with my rival, a man.

After a few more minutes of silence, he took me home. The flight back was not as terrifying — maybe I was getting used to this. We landed on my balcony.

“Thank-you,” I said, glad to be out of the sky.

“Good-night,” he said. Then he flew away.

I watched him become a dark slash against the sky, then a dot, then a speck, then disappear altogether.

He came often after that, appearing at my window to take me on an adventure through the night. As I lost my fear of flying, our flights became exhilarating escapes and I eagerly looked forward to them. Sometimes, he would let me glide alone for short distances, always catching me long before I would fall.

At this same time, my feelings towards my rival were changing. Although we still competed for the best stories, we became friends. Sometimes we would even collaborate on a story, sharing the work and sharing the credit. Slowly, our friendship deepened and one day I realized I loved him. This surprised me, for I always thought I loved my Superman and no other. After much thought, I decided that Superman was not for me; he was an exciting dream, but I needed someone real. So, when Clark asked me to marry him, I said yes.

When Superman arrived at my window that night, I had a speech planned for him. I was going to tell him that I loved him, but it could never lead to anything. I was going to tell him that I had found someone else. I was going to ask him to stop coming to my window. I never said any of those things. Superman spoke first.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” he said. “I live two lives: one as Superman, and one as a regular human being. You know me in both lives; I am Clark Kent.”

I was stunned and furious. “Why didn’t you tell me before?” I asked.

“I wanted you to love me for me, not because I am Superman,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

I forgave him — eventually — because I loved him. At least now I knew how Clark had gotten the interview. After we married, my life was bliss. Superman no longer came to my window, but we still went on late-night flights — now we jumped out of our own window together.

* * *

My real life used to be so disappointing. For years, I watched as my friends found love and success and I wondered what I was doing wrong.

But then one day I realized that the mild-mannered young man who had become my best friend and confidant was also the super man I had been looking for. I asked him to marry me and we have since lived happily ever after.

*