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Talking Story |
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From The Asian Reporter, V18, #7 (February 12, 2008), page 7.
Kiss supermen
I am an old guy. My road-worn Adidas, these broken bones, will bear this out.
I’m a bad man. Check out all those big boys and smart sisters who’ve taken shark-size bites out of me. The baddest.
I eat with fighting colonels. One flew F-4s for the Southern Republic, dodging deadly Soviet air-to-ground missiles; another, a Khmer just home from commanding Oregon National Guardsmen in the moonscape of Kandahar. I drink with Hmong and Mexican community uncles — guys dealt demonic betrayal, guys who got away with nothing but their blessed lives. Machos. Real men, every one of them.
Now here’s the cool thing: despite all their broken parts, all those broken hearts, they’re still stand-up guys. Broad-shouldered and open-hearted. Helpers we go to. Men Portland’s ethnic enclaves cannot do without.
Having said all that, here’s the point of this story.
Late last Thursday night, out of February’s arctic chill, in the far-far back corner booth of a northeast noodle shop, one of these masked and caped super-duper dudes told us something new. Something simply unheard of. He whispered almost urgent. We listened, all ears.
He revealed, between long pauses ... that someone ... talked nice to him. To a superhero.
Some gentle sister, he confided, said sweet words. Encouraging words. To him. To our best bud.
"Immm-possible," shot one of our rugged company. An insufferable silence settled among us.
"Unimaginable," I thought to myself. We worked on our chicken feet until they were gone.
"You sure?" I finally asked.
He nodded, not looking up. He twisted his beer mug clockwise, then counterclockwise.
I put it to Batman, then to Captain America and Green Lantern. I put it to them straight, "Fellas, has anyone ev-ver put a small smile between her lips, put a warm hand on your cheek, and said: ‘Damn, Dude. You da man. Da bomb. Da best.’?"
No one moved a muscle. All heads hung.
"Anyone?!" No eyes turned up. "Ever?!" Only beer mugs turned, clockwise then counterclockwise.
Why no kind words
So why no soft words? What’s with our Oregon Eth-o-nics, and how come we’re so skimpy with each other?
Maybe it’s our moms. It all starts with ma, and anyone’ll tell you our Asian and Islander, our Arab and African, ama’la don’t do a lot of kindly encouraging. That’s not to say Old World women offer no direction, there’s lots of shouting about trying harder, working longer. There are a thousand expressions of disappointment. We equate discipline with love.
No wonder our grownup girls aren’t so good at dealing well with doubt in us. In us men.
And real men — supermen, batmen, lone rangers, and the like — don’t ask for help. The Incredible Hulk needs no encouragement, and Spider-Man, we all know, gets his juice from Jamba. Right?
Wrong. Way wrong.
And the proof was in those tears, our buddy Commander Steel’s tears, two of them, big as lychee, sprinted down his red lycra mask. Each paused on his iron jaw before falling into our salted pepper squid.
"She touched me," he said, putting his alloy-gloved fingertips to his cheek. "And said she was proud of me," he sniffled. "I didn’t know what to do —."
"What you need to do is stop blubbering all over our calamari," I said, pulling our pupu platter out from under his huge shadow. "You’re soaking our appetizers, Man."
"Oh. Sorry."
"Proud of you?" I said. "You sure? A sister?"
"Yeah, I’m sure. And then she set her warm hand on my arm." We looked at his muscular arm, thick as an ordinary mortal’s thigh. We looked at each other.
"And then she said … she said ... she believes in me."
"What! She said what?" I put the back of my hand to his forehead. To check his engine temp.
"Yeah, she said she believes in who I am."
"She did?"
"Yeah — she said she believes in me, not in what I can do for her. She’s proud of me, win or lose." He looked up, all messed up.
"A nonya said that? One of ours?!"
"Yeah." He mopped his nose with the corner of his sun-gold super cape. He did it fast. No guapo wants no guys seeing him needy. Weepy.
Next superguy you see
That’s what that manly man said — choking down his big bad emotions. I kid you not. And I was a breath away from losing it myself, from crying like a girl, for the sheer gravity of it. For the tenderness of it, hers and his. But then I remembered I just gobbled down those peppered squids he’d just dropped his salty super-tears into. And you know what eating someone’s tears’ll do to you.
I swept my hot face with Commander Steel’s cape’s other corner. No one saw. Portland’s other superheroes were doing the same with their beer napkins. The mere mortals in the place were sucking rice noodles.
Now, I have a small request, maybe for a minor miracle, but I know how big a deal this really is. Maybe we can do it together. St. Valentine’s Day’s best.
Go to your favorite superhero. If he hasn’t recently bailed you out of some big American blues, if he hasn’t lately yanked you out of an angry Asian demon’s jaws, that’s okay. I assure you, he’s got lots of business.
Tug on his cape. (Best not touch their clubs, spears, thunderbolts.) Hold his hand, say something sweet. Thank you is always good.
If his eyes brim, if his nose runs, act like you don’t notice.