A few weeks ago, as I was browsing through a sale table at Macy’s on State Street, I discovered a wool hat with ear flaps and a fuzzy ball on top that would be perfect for chilly November days in Chicago. A woman standing across from me began singing, “Dada-dada-dada-dada, Batman!” I looked up, startled by her impromptu rendition of the theme song to one of my favorite childhood TV shows.
I didn’t recognize her, but somehow, she knew that in another time and another place, I had been Batman. Not the dark character in DC Comics, or Christian Bale’s Dark Knight. But, rather, Adam West’s campy character, millionaire Bruce Wayne, who, along with his young ward, Dick Grayson, turned into Batman and Robin, when summoned by the bat signal. It turned out, that this woman was a former neighbor. She had lived two doors down from my mom and me on the far Eastside of Detroit. She hadn’t lived there long, moving in in the spring of 1966 and leaving right after the riots. But she was there long enough to uncover my secret superhero identity.
She reminded me that I would swing on the swing set in my yard for hours; feet pumping wildly, plastic cape flapping behind me, my tiny voice repeating the Batman song over and over to the undulating rhythm of the swing. It was my mantra.
In October of 1967, I was three years-old. My parents had separated.
That’s where my memories begin.
After my dad left, Mom and I continued living in our little brick duplex. She struggled to make a life for us on a salary of $67.00 a week. We purchased our groceries from a “bring your own bags” food co-op. Our pantry and fridge included ‘no brand’ macaroni and cheese, dented canned goods, and off-brand frozen treats. Sometimes, we bought cans without labels because they were cheaper. I liked the place, with its warehouse expanse and sawdust covered floor. And I loved bagging our own groceries. My mom, however, was not as enamored as I with the adventure of our new life. In fact, I think she was demoralized.
I suppose we were poor. But I didn’t know it. I was too young to understand the effects of single parenthood.
I guess that’s the best way to be when you’re a child: unaware of the inner workings of your home; deaf to tears and shrouded words; oblivious to everything but cartoons, crayons, and costumes.
The day my Mom told me my Dad wasn’t coming back, we walked to a little party store in our neighborhood. I was excited, in spite of the biting wind in our faces as we walked down East Warren, because the tiny store where my parents bought cases of beer had a small rack of candy in front of the counter. If I was good, I thought, I might get a candy bar.
The ancient bell on the door clanged as we entered. The owner, a kindly old man with gnarly, arthritic hands, met us at the counter with his usual greeting, “Hello, Sweethearts. “ I smiled, inhaling the sweet, hop-laden air of the store, watching Mom select two Hershey bars; one for her, with almonds; one for me, without.
I didn’t know it, but in a way, my childhood ended at that moment.
As we walked back home, the wind at our backs, the heavy brace on my right leg clacking with every step, my mom held my hand and said, “Daddy isn’t going to be living with us anymore.” Before the impact of those words could settle in my 36 month-old brain, she handed me my Hershey bar.
The end of oblivion had arrived; it came with a chocolate bar.
That's when I retreated to the comfort and safety of the Caped Crusader.
I watched that show every afternoon, losing myself in the goings on in Gotham City, drowning in the resonance of Adam West’s voice, wishing I had a Batpole.
I did have a Batmobile dashboard with working windshield wipers, a purple sweatshirt emblazoned with a faded Batman logo, a mask, and a cape. And, of course, the chant, the mantra, the song that helped me tune out the world.
For a few hours a day, I could return to the unconscious, oblivious state that is the right of every three year-old. Flying on my swing, soaring in the wind, I was free. I didn’t have cerebral palsy. I didn’t wear a brace on my leg. And my Daddy wasn’t leaving me.
