Superman! I am Superman! Watch me Ma’! The little boy shouted over the blaring TV as Superman flew across the skies. He ran across the living room in his Superman briefs, wanting to be visible. To be revered the way his favorite super hero was. He had the same dreams that every child is born with – to be of purpose, to find his passion, and to leave a legacy that undeniably states, “I am somebody.” That’s what he saw in Superman.
He grabbed the polyester beige curtains that hung heavy on the window, stained by the neglect of poverty, like the sidewalk and alley that bordered our apartment complex. A cape that would allow him to fly beyond the screeching cars, drunkards, and sirens that kept us in. He twirled and twirled, losing himself in an intoxicating feeling of vertigo; feeling his weightless body floating off the ground.
He flew from the second floor, they said. Ay Dios Mio what a tragedy. It was the mother’s fault – why wasn’t she watching him. Too many kids to look after. No. It was the landlord’s fault. That window sits just a few inches from the floor – he should have put bars on the window, but he is too cheap.
The little boy was lucky the paramedic said. The concrete ledge allowed him to fall in a seated position, avoiding trauma to the head. The little boy never flew again.