Superman and MeBy Sherman AlexieThe following essay appeared as part of a series, "The Joy of Reading and Writing." This essay isalso printed in The Most Wonderful Books: Writers on Discovering the Pleasures of Reading.
I learned to read with a Superman comic book. Simple enough, I suppose. I cannot recall which particular Superman comic book I read, nor can I remember which villain he fought in that issue.I cannot remember the plot, nor the means by which I obtained the comic book. What I canremember is this: I was 3 years old, a Spokane Indian boy living with his family on the SpokaneIndian Reservation in eastern Washington state. We were poor by most standards, but one of myparents usually managed to find some minimum-wage job or another, which made us middleclassby reservation standards. I had a brother and three sisters. We lived on a combination ofirregular paychecks, hope, fear and government surplus food.
My father, who is one of the few Indians who went to Catholic school on purpose, was an avidreader of westerns, spy thrillers, murder mysteries, gangster epics, basketball player biographiesand anything else he could find. He bought his books by the pound at Dutch's Pawn Shop,Goodwill, Salvation Army and Value Village. When he had extra money, he bought new novelsat supermarkets, convenience stores and hospital gift shops. Our house was filled with books.They were stacked in crazy piles in the bathroom, bedrooms and living room. In a fit ofunemployment-inspired creative energy, my father built a set of bookshelves and soon filled themwith a random assortment of books about the Kennedy assassination, Watergate, the VietnamWar and the entire 23-book series of the Apache westerns. My father loved books, and since I loved my father with an aching devotion, I decided to love books as well.
I can remember picking up my father's books before I could read. The words themselves were mostly foreign, but I still remember the exact moment when I first understood, with a sudden clarity, the purpose of a paragraph. I didn't have the vocabulary to say "paragraph," but I realized that a paragraph was a fence that held words. The words inside a paragraph worked together for a common purpose. They had some specific reason for being inside the same fence. This knowledge delighted me. I began to think of everything in terms of paragraphs. Our reservation was a small paragraph within the United States. My family's house was a paragraph, distinct from the other paragraphs of the LeBrets to the north, the Fords to our south and the Tribal School to the west. Inside our house, each family member existed as a separate paragraph but still had genetics and common experiences to link us. Now, using this logic, I can see my changed family as an essay of seven paragraphs: mother, father, older brother, the deceased sister, my younger twin sisters and our adopted little brother.
At the same time I was seeing the world in paragraphs, I also picked up that Superman comicbook. Each panel, complete with picture, dialogue and narrative was a three-dimensionalparagraph. In one panel, Superman breaks through a door. His suit is red, blue and yellow. Thebrown door shatters into many pieces. I look at the narrative above the picture. I cannot read thewords, but I assume it tells me that "Superman is breaking down the door." Aloud, I pretend to read the words and say, "Superman is breaking down the door." Words, dialogue, also float out of Superman's mouth. Because he is breaking down the door, I assume he says, "I am breakingdown the door." Once again, I pretend to read the words and say aloud, "I am breaking down thedoor" In this way, I learned to read.
This might be an interesting story all by itself. A little Indian boy teaches himself to read at an early age and advances quickly. He reads "Grapes of Wrath" in kindergarten when other children are struggling through "Dick and Jane." If he'd been anything but an Indian boy living on the reservation, he might have been called a prodigy. But he is an Indian boy living on the reservation and is simply an oddity. He grows into a man who often speaks of his childhood in the third person,as if it will somehow dull the pain and make him sound more modest about his talents.
A smart Indian is a dangerous person, widely feared and ridiculed by Indians and non-Indiansalike. I fought with my classmates on a daily basis. They wanted me to stay quiet when the non-Indian teacher asked for answers, for volunteers, for help. We were Indian children who were expected to be stupid. Most lived up to those expectations inside the classroom but subverted them on the outside. They struggled with basic reading in school but could remember how to sing a few dozen powwow songs. They were monosyllabic in front of their non-Indian teachers but could tell complicated stories and jokes at the dinner table. They submissively ducked their heads when confronted by a non-Indian adult but would slug it out with the Indian bully who was 10 years older. As Indian children, we were expected to fail in the non-Indian world. Those who failed were ceremonially accepted by other Indians and appropriately pitied by non-Indians.
I refused to fail. I was smart. I was arrogant. I was lucky. I read books late into the night, until I could barely keep my eyes open. I read books at recess, then during lunch, and in the few minutes left after I had finished my classroom assignments. I read books in the car when my family traveled to powwows or basketball games. In shopping malls, I ran to the bookstores and read bits and pieces of as many books as I could. I read the books my father brought home from the pawnshops and secondhand. I read the books I borrowed from the library. I read the backs of cereal boxes. I read the newspaper. I read the bulletins posted on the walls of the school, the clinic, the tribal offices, the post office. I read junk mail. I read auto-repair manuals. I read magazines. I read anything that had words and paragraphs. I read with equal parts joy and desperation. I loved those books, but I also knew that love had only one purpose. I was trying to save my life.Despite all the books I read, I am still surprised I became a writer. I was going to be a pediatrician.
These days, I write novels, short stories, and poems. I visit schools and teach creative writing to Indian kids. In all my years in the reservation school system, I was never taught how to write poetry, short stories or novels. I was certainly never taught that Indians wrote poetry, short stories and novels. Writing was something beyond Indians. I cannot recall a single time that a guest teacher visited the reservation. There must have been visiting teachers. Who were they? Where are they now? Do they exist? I visit the schools as often as possible. The Indian kids crowd the classroom. Many are writing their own poems, short stories and novels.They have read my books. They have read many other books. They look at me with bright eye sand arrogant wonder. They are trying to save their lives.
Then there are the sullen and already defeated Indian kids who sit in the back rows and ignore me with theatrical precision. The pages of their notebooks are empty. They carry neither pencil nor pen. They stare out the window. They refuse and resist. "Books," I say to them. "Books," I say. I throw my weight against their locked doors. The door holds. I am smart. I am arrogant. I am lucky. I am trying to save our lives.
1. What figure of speech is the following: “We lived on a combination of irregularpaychecks, hope, fear and government surplus food”? What is its effect?
2. In what ways does the description of Sherman Alexie’s father play against thestereotype?
3. What is the effect of Alexie’s analogy of a paragraph to a fence?
4. What does Alexie mean when he describes “an Indian boy” who “grows into a man whooften speaks of his childhood in the third-person”?
5. In paragraph 7, Alexie deliberately uses a number of short, simple sentences. What effectis he trying to achieve?
6. This eight-paragraph essay is divided into two distinct sections. Why? How would you describe the arrangement of material? How does it suit Alexie’s overall purpose?
7. Discuss Alexie’s use of parallel structure and repetition in the last two paragraphs. Pay particular attention to the final sentence in each.
8. Who is the audience for this essay? Cite specific passages to support your response. Assignment: Write your own personal essay on how you learned to read. Use Alexie’s piece as a model. Be specific and use some of the tools of language that Alexie employs (parallel structure, metaphor).1-2 pages