"Superman and Me" is a personal essay written by Sherman Alexie, a Native American author and poet. In the essay, Alexie reflects on the role that Superman played in his life as a child growing up on the Spokane Indian Reservation in Washington state.
As a child, Alexie was an avid reader and a fan of Superman comic books. He was drawn to the character's incredible strength and ability to solve problems, and he saw in Superman a symbol of hope and possibility. For Alexie, reading about Superman's adventures was a way of escaping the harsh realities of life on the reservation, where poverty, addiction, and violence were all too common.
But "Superman and Me" is more than just a nostalgiciac tale of childhood reading. It is also a powerful meditation on the importance of education and the transformative power of reading. Alexie writes that reading helped him to see the world in a different way, and to understand that there were other ways of life beyond the reservation. He writes:
"I learned to read with a Superman comic book. My father gave me a Superman comic book and said, 'Here, read this.' I read it, and then I wanted to read more, so I read everything I could find. I read books, magazines, newspapers, cereal boxes, everything. And I read because I loved to read, not because I had to read."
Through reading, Alexie discovered a world beyond the reservation, and he was able to envision a different future for himself. He writes: "I learned that I was a human being and that human beings were strong and good and decent. I learned that I had value and that my dreams and my thoughts were important. I learned that I had the power to change my life and the lives of others."
In "Superman and Me," Alexie offers a poignant and thought-provoking reflection on the power of reading and education. He shows how reading can open up new worlds and give us the courage and confidence to pursue our dreams. It is a moving and inspiring essay, one that will resonate with readers of all ages.
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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. Superman and Me The Joy of Reading and Writing April 19, 1998 SHERMAN ALEXIE Sherman Alexie is the author, most recently, of "Indian Killer. We lived on a combination of irregular paychecks, hope, fear and government surplus food. In a fit of unemployment-inspired creative energy, my father built a set of bookshelves and soon filled them with a random assortment of books about the Kennedy assassination, Watergate, the Vietnam War and the entire 23-book series of the Apache westerns. Inside our house, each family member existed as a separate paragraph but still had genetics and common experiences to link us.
Sherman Alexie
My father loved books, and since I loved my father with an aching devotion, I decided to love books as well. He bought his books by the pound at Dutch's Pawn Shop, Goodwill, Salvation Army and Value Village. We lived on a combination of irregular paychecks, hope, fear and government surplus food. I had a brother and three sisters. They were stacked in crazy piles in the bathroom, bedrooms and living room.
My father, who is one of the few Indians who went to Catholic school on purpose, was an avid reader of westerns, spy thrillers, murder mysteries, gangster epics, basketball player biographies and anything else he could find. I learned to read with a Superman comic book. I can remember picking up my father's books before I could read. What I can remember is this: I was 3 years old, a Spokane Indian boy living with his family on the Spokane Indian Reservation in eastern Washington state. . I didn't have the vocabulary to say "paragraph," but I realized that a paragraph was a fence that held words. We were poor by most standards, but one of my parents usually managed to find some minimum-wage job or another, which made us middle-class by reservation standards.
I cannot recall which particular Superman comic book I read, nor can I remember which villain he fought in that issue. What I can remember is this: I was 3 years old, a Spokane Indian boy living with his family on the Spokane Indian Reservation in eastern Washington state. I had a brother and three sisters. Our house was filled with books. 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. Simple enough, I suppose. They were stacked in crazy piles in the bathroom, bedrooms and living room.
The words inside a paragraph worked together for a common purpose. We were poor by most standards, but one of my parents usually managed to find some minimum-wage job or another, which made us middle-class by reservation standards. My father, who is one of the few Indians who went to Catholic school on purpose, was an avid reader of westerns, spy thrillers, murder mysteries, gangster epics, basketball player biographies and anything else he could find. 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. This knowledge delighted me. I cannot remember the plot, nor the means by which I obtained the comic book.
In a fit of unemployment-inspired creative energy, my father built a set of bookshelves and soon filled them with a random assortment of books about the Kennedy assassination, Watergate, the Vietnam War and the entire 23-book series of the Apache westerns. Our reservation was a small paragraph within the United States. When he had extra money, he bought new novels at supermarkets, convenience stores and hospital gift shops. 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 novels at supermarkets, convenience stores and hospital gift shops. I cannot recall which particular Superman comic book I read, nor can I remember which villain he fought in that issue. .
