Searching For The Superhero
By Jennifer Batchelor
@jennbatchelor
It was 8:50 a.m. on a Wednesday, the second week of the safer-at-home orders. I stood at the kitchen counter brewing yet another cup of coffee when I glanced at the clock on the stove. Normally Jon was in the kitchen by now for a quick bite before starting his workday.
I slid two PopTarts into the toaster then walked down the hallway, wondering if he’d fallen back asleep after I got up. It wouldn’t be the first time; Jon is not a morning person in any sense of the word. Our bedroom light was on though, the door cracked. Then I heard his voice; probably an early troubleshooting call with an East Coast client—I’d poke my head in and see if he wanted me to bring him his coffee.
I pushed the door ajar. Jon sat on the bed, his back to me. He turned his head and met my eyes.
I’ve just been laid off, he mouthed.
Jon is the breadwinner and carries our family’s insurance.
My income is next to nothing.
We’ve never managed to save more than a few months’ worth of expenses.
We’re in the middle of a global pandemic.
There weren’t any tears. Just terror, as my whole body began to shake.
Everything from that day is crystallized in my mind. I remember texting two of my closest friends, and Anna Quinlan calling me immediately and just sitting on the phone with me, letting me be silent but not alone. I remember taking a bite of my long-cold Pop Tart and it tasting like sawdust; I threw the rest in the trash. We explained to the kids at lunch that their dad had lost his job and that, while we reassured them that we would be okay, we’d need to be careful about spending money for a little while. The afternoon was warm and sunny so we had a picnic on the patio while the kids took turns yelling “I hate you coronavirus!” at the top of their lungs in the backyard, and I was tempted to try it myself because it looked so cathartic.
But mostly I remember how heavy my fear felt, a solid weight in my abdomen as tangible as a growing child. All day I found myself crossing my arms in front of me, my back rounded. The pose of someone who’s been sucker punched, winded. The posture of a person who’s been handed more than she’s learned to carry.
***
Somewhere in the weeks after, Jon and I decided it was the perfect opportunity to watch all of the Marvel movies in chronological order. Or, more accurately, he decided to watch them and I—with no pressing social engagements for the foreseeable future—opted more often than not to join him.
Superhero flicks aren’t normally my genre of choice. I like something with a strong plot and fully-drawn characters. Watching essentially the same storyline—vaguely apocalyptical danger, near certain defeat, rallying triumph of good over evil ... for now, because sequels—played out with an interchangeable cast of cookie cutter heroes isn’t my typical jam, although shirtless Chris Hemsworth sweetens the pot considerably. (Seriously. What a beautiful human. Well done, God.)
As we moved through the list of all 22 movies in sequence, watching a new one every three or four days, I found myself digging deeper, searching for themes beyond “ridiculously good looking (wo)man saves the world/universe … again.”
Call it the ultimate practice in ascribing meaning to chaos, if you will, but what struck me is the ordinary significance they give to their extraordinary power. And not in a false humility, “aw shucks” kind of way—they’re all very aware of their superior strength/speed/intellect/bow-and-arrow prowess. But they also all operate by the Peter Parker principle; that is, that with great power comes great responsibility.
They must save the universe precisely because they can. And so there is a sense, not so much of reluctance, but of an inevitability. There is no mention of fear, not because it doesn’t exist but because it can’t be allowed to change what needs to be done.
Two-thirds of the way through 22 movies, I’ve learned that once stripped of its power, fear becomes something we can carry.
***
In the weeks since Jon lost his job, my Venmo has pinged like clockwork: $10 for coffee for the two of us, $50 for pizza and drinks. We’ve been mailed grocery store gift cards and notes of encouragement, had sourdough starter and art supplies dropped off on our doorstep, and one dear friend adamantly transferred her entire stimulus check into our account, saying she didn’t need it or budget for it and wanted us to have it.
It is both hard and humbling to accept these things. Until two months ago, I would’ve told you my superpower is my independence. I am self-sufficient and need very little, and that was something I took pride in. There’s also the even less palatable part of me that wanted more. I wanted someone to fix this. I wanted to go back to the way things used to be. There was no gift card or note that could save us, and if I couldn’t have that, did I want anything?
But when I paid attention, I began to notice something. The offers, the words, the assistance—they always came on a dark day. In the beginning it was daily, because all the days were dark ones. But then they spread and lengthened. The card in our mailbox the day I found out I didn’t get a job I applied for. The text that just happened to come through on a worry-filled afternoon.
Again and again, too reliably to be coincidence, we were remembered.
I know what it feels like to watch someone you love fall apart a little and want desperately to just do … something. My people showing up for me right now? I am the one they love, and these notes and texts and gift cards are their something.
I have learned to say yes, not just to the assistance but to the connection. This is still our road to walk, in all of its darkness and uncertainty, and no one can change that for us. And yet, when I start to stumble, a supporting grasp under my elbow appears. When my step slows because I can’t see very far ahead, a guiding hand is placed at the small of my back. It’s not much and it’s also everything as my spine uncurves and my shoulders straighten.
Independence isn’t what’s going to save me. Community is. And with its strength, my fear has become something I’m learning how to carry.
***
Last week, we had another springtime thunderstorm. It wasn’t terribly strong, but it was close by—the thunder rattled our windows, the lightning lit up our yard, and the wind knocked out our power for a few hours. While my children might claim to be unafraid of thunderstorms, they are afraid of the dark and spent the night in our bedroom.
The next day, the sun was out and while the kids jumped on the trampoline, I worked on my computer from the patio.
“Hey, take a look at that,” Jon said, moving closer to a tree on the property line between our yard and our neighbor’s.
Lightning had struck the tree, breaking off a large limb and leaving a blackened, charred scar in its trunk. Nathan studied it and then looked back at the house, measuring the 100 or so feet with his eyes.
“That was close,” he said. And then he turned to me and, with a hint of accusation in his voice, he said, “I thought our house was the safest place to be in a storm.”
“Well, it is, Bud,” I said. “But nowhere is completely safe.”
I watched his face as he processed this information. He nodded and gave me a small smile, but suddenly he looked older. And no wonder; I handed him a grown up truth he’ll need to learn to hold.
We want certainty. We want there to be someone stronger, faster, more knowledgeable to keep us safe. We want a superhero.
But there is only us, learning how to carry our fear together and finding out what being brave feels like.