What’s Your Superpower?

 

 

I just spent an empowering weekend. I arrived at Sunday evening feeling a great big mix of things: fatigued, sore, exhilarated, hungry, and hopeful.

It all started on Friday, when I saw this meme, and it said, “No one is you, and that’s your superpower.” And I thought, “Cool!”

It’s true- no one else is me. No one else is you, either.

Now, before you roll your eyes and say something like, “I wouldn’t wish being me on my worst enemy,” just stop for a minute. Really and truly? I used to think that way. Not anymore. Nope. Now I think like the little girl I was when I watched Lynda Carter spin until she transformed into Wonder Woman, using wits and beauty to foil bad guys. I think like the little girl I was when I watched “Electra Woman and Dyna-Girl.” I loved Batman reruns, especially the ones with Barbara Gordon’s Batgirl, who challenged the men in the room with her brains and pluck.

 

That little girl didn’t question her intelligence. She didn’t question her thighs. She didn’t say much, but when she spoke it was because she believed in what she was saying. That little girl was not afraid to bring questions to the table. That little girl didn’t wait for permission to climb monkey bars or explore on her bike or jump in the pool or lose herself in a novel.

Little girls still love Wonder Woman. Big girls do, too. We know it because of the resounding success of this year’s film. Diana Prince still calls to the feminine spirit of power. My daughter Libby, who works for a company that sends characters to kids’ birthday parties, reveled in it this weekend, playing Wonder Woman for an eight year old. Not Aurora. Not Cinderella. Wonder Woman. Amazonian warrior. With a Lasso of Truth instead of a broom of submission. A woman who is her own hero, not the damsel waiting to be rescued.

I am learning to be my own hero, too.

I attended my first political protest this Saturday, standing along a busy thoroughfare, holding up a bright yellow poster. I donned my own super hero costume:

to protect my thighs of power: undershorts. Because even in March, south Texas is hot and sweaty and thigh chafe is no joke;

to add spring to my step: yellow Converse of joy. Because who can feel despondent in bright yellow Cons?

To embolden my heart: a Wonder Woman logo across my chest. Because I am my own Amazonian warrior.

I rode Thelma, my bike, for over one and a half hours to get to the protest site. I am not sure why I did it, I just know that my heart spoke it and I listened. Something in my advocate soul needed to prove that I had the courage and stamina to do it. Bearing in mind that I am fifty years old, have had one knee surgery and two discs replaced with a steel plate in my neck, have two more bulging discs, and two  knees that now sound like crinkling cellophane when I go up stairs, this was no small feat. I hadn’t been on a bike in two years, except for one thirty five minute ride a week ago. I honestly don’t know why I did it. But I arrived to the protest out of breath, sweat dripping down my backside, and exhilarated. I chugged water then found a spot in line.

An organizer led a chant, it went like this:

Tell me what democracy looks like!

And we answered:

This is what democracy looks like!

 

 

With eleven year old blonde girls on one side, and a mom with heavily accented English on the other, we chanted and I got choked up. Because it is what democracy looks- and sounds- like: heavily accented or native English, young or middle aged, rich or poor. This was a gathering of diverse people. Toward the end of the event, a young dad came to me with so much excitement it couldn’t be contained in his body. He wanted to know how we had all gotten organized, and he was thrilled to see like minded people in what has traditionally been an ultra conservative community. He ended up bringing his elementary aged boys over to meet me and to take in what was happening. This was what democracy looks like. And by the way, the folks on the other end of the political spectrum have the same freedom to gather. Isn’t this a great country?

I managed to get halfway back home, and was grateful to my sweet husband for meeting me at a cafe to taxi me back home after a lemon drop martini and a turkey burger. At that moment, Diana the Amazon princess needed a ride from her rescuer because her legs were wobbly and her softer parts felt bruised. Hey, even super heroes need a little help every now and then.

Image result for a wrinkle in time movie

After a lovely and restful night, I drove (no Thelma on this day) and then limped into the cinema to revisit another childhood hero: Meg Murry in the film adaptation of Madeleine L’Engle’s novel “A Wrinkle in Time.” I don’t know that I can adequately describe what this book meant to me as an awkward, introverted, brainy, dreamy pre-adolescent with an even brighter little brother. Meg was a hero. She saved her dad with her courage and her brain. She visited dream planets by believing and being open. She was magnificent. Oprah did what she does- drop wisdom and grace, while Reese and Mindy brought humor and joy. My own heroes were invoked and quoted over and over: Jesus, Ghandi, Maya Angelou, Lin Manuel Miranda. I didn’t love the movie because it was a perfect piece of cinema.  I loved the movie because it was visually stunning, it celebrated diversity, it exalted intelligence, it honored love. After all, as Meg’s father discovered when his science experiment came to life, “Love is the frequency.”

The film continued the work that I think is underway on our planet. The work of soul and mission and caring.

As Mrs. Which, Oprah challenges Meg, “Be a warrior. Can you?” I felt the challenge in my seat in the darkened theater, too.

What’s my superpower? It’s a belief, down deep in my bones, that life is magical.

What are my tools? First, a listening ear. Then, my written words.

What is my mission, my personal legend, my work? To help others see, create, and accept the magic of their own lives.

Can I be a warrior? Hell, yes. Bring me my shield and my invisible jet. Let my heart be open. Let my soul be brave. Let my life have its own heroic tale.

 

Peanut Butter Cookies and Serenity

 

I just finished my annual attendance at state teacher conventions- and these are in the state of Texas, so they are big conventions- what else would they even be?

While wandering the convention hall, I walked by another vendor’s booth and saw the stacks of boxes, sitting alongside literacy teaching aids. You know the ones- brown boxes for S’mores, orange for Do-Si-Dos, purple for Caramel Delites. I hustled back to my booth to grab some cash, and bought two boxes: one Thin Mints, one Trefoils (the shortbread). That was all the cash I had on me, and I knew two things: I didn’t need too much tempting cookie goodness keeping me company at my booth, and I could buy more when I got home. My husband is a sucker for them, if he goes to the grocery store in February and March, he comes home with at least two boxes.

I believe girl scout cookies are a special enchantment. They are available just once a year, and until recently you had to find a girl to buy them from.  Even though you can order them online now, I still prefer to acquire them from a fresh-faced, optimistic young girl. There’s something really great about encouraging a young lady who’s working hard to make something happen.

Sweets are magical, at least for me. My husband puts a bag of Jelly Bellies or Brach’s Orange Slices in my Christmas stocking every year, my dad used to keep Little Debbie Star Crunches in the pantry for my brown bag lunches. My students used to bring me bags of gummy bears when it was tech week for our plays- the gooey sugar high kept me running on long, stressful days.

Ancient and historic cultures all had sweets:  cakes and pastries sweetened with honey, apple pie in Medieval Europe, sorbet (made popular by Catherine de Medici in Renaissance Italy). I keep trying to resist sugar, as all the health sites and articles tell me to. But I can’t. Or more accurately- choose not to. Because for me, sugar is a decadent delight, one of very few I allow myself, along with glasses of wine and plenty of naps.

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Girl scouts are pretty great, too. Their website features stories of young women and girls on adventure, doing advocacy, embracing refugees, and working on science projects. Though I never got to be a Girl Scout myself, as it required money my family didn’t have for dues and a uniform, as well as a mother who could summon enough interest to actually get me to meetings and help me earn patches, so many of my wonderful friends have been Girl Scouts. My heart-mother, Dorothy, was a GS in the 1950s, I can’t think of a better role model for women than her. Unlike organizations that focus on a girl’s appearance, the Girl Scouts seem to be driven to empower. Girl power goes great with Tagalongs and a glass of cold milk.

Recently, after dinner, I paused Netflix, needing to do my evening meditation before I watched another minute of television. I set two Do-Si-Do cookies on a TV tray by my comfy chair, thinking I would have them after meditation. But during meditation I realized I was too full to eat them, so once I opened my eyes, I put them back in the box.

Waiting can be its own enchantment.

 

 

 

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