My Hero

What’s a hero? They are superheroes we all love and enjoy on TV. right? They wear capes and have certain superpowers that make them stand out from other superheroes. They contain and fight off the evil within the world. If you were to ask the person next to you who their favorite superhero is you may get replies such as; “Spider-Man because he can stick to buildings”, “Superman because he has the ability to fly”, or maybe even “the Hulk because of his strength”. 

As a kid, we would tend to see older figures as role models, whether that’s your grandfather, your sister, your brother, a tv character, a celebrity, and so on and so forth. We would watch every move they made because we believed they were “the coolest people in the world”. My brother, looked up to Captain America and wanted to be just like him. So we bought him a Captain America costume for his 5th birthday. He was never seen without it on. He wore it at the table, he wore it playing outside, and he even would wear it to school. He was so indulged in trying to be like him and he wore the same costume every day. So for his 6th birthday we got him another Captain America costume but a different style. Like any other kid he was wearing a costume of his favorite superhero. I loved to watch the movies but not over and over until he knew the story from beginning to end, and all in between by heart. As we watched them together you better have bet his costume stayed on. But where was my costume?

I wore his dark olive green shirts that were on the floor in the corner of his room that were most definitely dirty. I stole his flannels that were folded nicely on his dresser. I made his sweatshirts disappear from his closet. And like my brother I had my “costumes”, these were my costumes. I’d wear them at the table, playing outside, and of course, I wore them to school. My costumes eventually got stained and odored strongly of peanut butter and sour sweat, but I didn’t care when I was a kid. I wore my dad’s clothes for such a long period of time that I started to act like him. Sure he didn’t climb walls, couldn’t fly, and his skin wasn’t the color of palm leaves nor was he able to lift a car with one hand. But he was my superhero, and I followed and copied every move he made. There were times his dark olive green shirts were no longer on the floor or even in his closet, instead they were where I dreaded them to be. In a camo or black bag on his bed. My dad had to leave once in a while and even as I got older I didn’t entirely understand why. Something about helping others and making them safe or something along those lines. I knew I couldn’t have him all to myself and that others needed him as much as I did or even more. So I said my goodbyes, counted down the days he’d get home, and wore his clothes to bed. Then after days passed he’d returned back home.

Now I still wear his sweatshirts and shirts.  The only difference is that now he is retired (and maybe also that I have better hygiene). No more packing of his green shirts, no more counting down those days, but I still say goodbye but I know it won’t be long. My dad always called me “buddy” because I was always lingering behind him. Being a senior in high school now has played a role. I will have to say goodbye at some point as I go off to college. Even though I know he will still be there and is a call away,  little me wishes I could stay. He is my hero and I still look up to him to this day, further away wearing his sweatshirts that of course wouldn’t stay. 

“Father and His Daughter” by sightmybyblinded is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.