Tag: responsibility

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Spider-Man: Romecoming

It’s a Marvel after all these years, but I am still an unabashed Spider-Fan. And that’s true whether the man behind the mask is Peter Parker, Miles Morales … or Mattia Villardita.

If you don’t recognize that last name, don’t worry; you haven’t missed the box office smash “Spider-Man: Far From Rome.” Mattia Villardita is a man from northern Italy who visits sick children in hospitals dressed as the superhero webslinger. During the pandemic, that even extended to organizing video calls for pediatric patients, delivering Spidey-pizzas to them, and organizing a kids’ play area in his home town’s hospital.

It’s been a colorful way to help others,  and recently it’s gotten him international recognition. Photos of Spider-Man receiving a thank-you from Pope Francis on June 23 and then giving the Pope a mask of his own rocketed around the internet… to the amazement of Mattia, who didn’t learn of his applause until later, since, as the Irish Times noted, the Spider-Man costume didn’t have room to carry a phone.

“To tell you the truth,” he told the Irish Times, “I expected that this meeting could spark curiosity, but not that it would go all over the world.”

Unlike Mattia, I’m not surprised at all.

If ever there was a superhero for all of us, right here, right now, it’s the webhead.

I latched onto Spidey as a kid, buoyed by comics and games and episodes of “The Electric Company.” It was a neat fit – a young hero with a quick sense of humor and a mind that worked faster than his web-shooters. As I reached my teen years, I even had a bit of a Peter Parker look myself, albeit with blue eyes instead of the traditional brown hidden behind the mask.

But it didn’t take me long to see what really made his heart beat behind those red-and-blue long johns. And what makes him still work today.

Then and now, he’s one of us.

Superman routinely saves the planet. Spidey’s had his moments, but spends most of his time with more local problems (as befits “your neighborhood friendly Spider-Man”).

Batman has the resources of a billionaire to help Gotham, both in and out of costume. Spider-Man sometimes struggles to make the rent.

Wonder Woman fought to become a champion, Spider-Man chose to become one when he saw how badly he’d screwed up.

He goes into battle scared and covers it with jokes. He’s got troubles of his own, but doesn’t let it stop him from helping someone else.

Flawed. Limited. Struggling. And still trying to help.

That’s us. Even if we’re a little less flamboyant in how we cover our mouth and nose.

That’s the family friend who visits because they heard the lawn mower was broken … and then stays to help tame a backyard that had become Wild Kingdom.

It’s the daycare helper who’s in demand to read again and again because “You do the voices!”

It’s the steady hand on the trembling shoulder, offering comfort at a time when there’s nothing else to give.

It’s the realization that we’re all responsible for each other. And that if we each do what we can, however small it might seem, it can make a difference.

Even without a Papal photograph to prove it.

I hope Mr. Villardita keeps up the good work. I hope we all do. We may not be able to climb a wall or swing between skyscrapers, but together, we can spin up a super amount of help.

And True Believers, that’s a world-wide web worth having. 

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What’s Called For

When you have to write a column a couple of days in advance, there’s always a danger of being overtaken by events.

This one didn’t even make it to 400 words.

“THEY CALLED PENNSYLVANIA!!” Heather shouted from the bedroom as I wrote on Saturday morning.

My brain abruptly turned into a train derailment as my fingers skidded to a stop.

“You’re kidding!” I called back.

“No! NBC, CNN, now ABC …”

I looked at my incomplete draft. And then reached for the backspace key.

Maybe I ought to buy that lottery ticket after all.

Like most of us, I had gotten used to the thought that “Call Me” might be a nice Blondie song, but it was unlikely to be seen in real life for quite some time. After all, this is how it works, right? Trickle of votes, adjust the lead, back to the count. Trickle of votes, adjust the lead, back to the count. Over and over in an endless news cycle, sort of like Peter Jennings meets Bill Murray.

To be honest, the catch-and-release pattern gave me a rueful chuckle. This used to be my former life as a newspaper reporter. In the Super Bowl-like enthusiasm of Election Day – marked by newsrooms with high adrenaline and higher pizza bills – there would always be at least one race that would defy deadlines. In a ballot full of easy calls and quick turnarounds, you would somehow draw the one that looked you in the eye and screamed “Meaningful results? TONIGHT? HAHAHAHAHA! See you in the morning, sucker!”

So yes, this is familiar. It’s just on a larger scale.

It’s also more challenging.

As a reporter, I had a job to do, a story to write at the end of it all. As a voter, it’s less obvious. After all, we’ve done our job, right? We made our call, said our say, and now we can finally be thrilled, or disappointed, or eager to see if armies of lawyers can manage to beat each other to death with briefcases.

But it’s not that simple.

When the election ends, our job is just getting started.

There’s been a lot written lately about peaceful transitions of power. That’s not just a courtesy – it’s a recognition that elective offices are under a permanent job review. Fortunes can change as easily as the tides, yesterday’s “outs” can be tomorrow’s “ins,” and when it’s your turn, you had better show the same grace on the way out that you hope to receive on the way back in.

And that job review? That’s us. Regardless of party. Regardless of faction.

And that goes on long beyond a cast-and-counted ballot.

It means watching the people we choose, and not just as a fan club. It means separating truth from fiction, learning what’s going on, learning what it means for people beyond our own sliver of the world. Not silencing our voice, but learning to hear the voices of others as well. As any choir will tell you, that’s the only way to create harmony.

It means holding people accountable for their actions, even the ones on our “team.” I use the quotes, because our real team is ultimately the country itself. No one deserves our blind support. Praise what makes us better, challenge what makes us worse, and always look for a way to bring more light and less pain to the world.

I’ve said it before – this country is never finished. We need to make sure the next chapter is one we can all be proud of. Even if we have to rewrite it in midstream.

Now and always, that is our calling.

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A Sweet Reminder

I came home to find Blake celebrating. This was not a good sign.

It’s not that I mind dogs being happy. When you have an 85-pound English Labrador, sudden happiness for the smallest of reasons is part of the package. (“Mom woke up! AGAIN! Come on, let’s go downstairs NOW!”)

So yeah, happy is OK. But when Big Blake is outright ecstatic, there’s only one possible reason. He’d gotten away with something, and something had tasted GOOD.

Sure enough. A pillowcase on the floor. The one that held Missy’s leftover Halloween candy. The one that suddenly held a lot less Halloween candy than it used to.

“BLAKE!!!”

Did you know you can hit Warp 7 when driving to the vet?

Yes, all is now well. Expensively well, but well. The dog with the iron stomach who has survived eating everything from baby wipes to grapes can now add “Halloween chocolate” to the list. (For those who don’t know, chocolate is poisonous to dogs, but the combination of a big dog and cheap milk chocolate is more survivable than most – though you still want a vet to make him throw it up FAST.)  He’s gassy now, but basically OK.

I’d like to say he’s learned a lesson. But I know better. Blake has a one-track mind when it comes to anything edible – or semi-edible, or inedible but enticing – and very little in the way of common sense, even at the canine level.

No, the lessons worth learning are for the humans. About keeping the dog on the radar. (I’d closed the bedroom door where he usually sleeps, forgetting that he was quietly napping on the living room couch.) About keeping candy on the radar, especially when Missy has a habit of leaving it around despite reminders.  And especially about vigilance in the ordinary tasks, so that the extraordinary ones become less necessary.

That’s a good lesson to remember with a country, as well as a canine.

Veterans Day has returned. It’s a time when we hold parades, say a few extra thank-you’s, and write or read long commentaries about how we need to remember the needs of our men and women in uniform throughout the year, and not just once every 365 days. Maybe a headline somewhere throws out a reminder of reforms needed at the VA hospitals, or homeless vets, or the thousand other things that need attending to.

It’s important. All of it. But there’s something just as important that we need to understand.

America isn’t just something to protect. It’s something to build, every day. And the job of making an America that is worth protecting is too big to be borne by our veterans alone.

It requires every single one of us.

I don’t mean that we all need to grab the nearest American flag and march down the street every day at noon, singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” at the top of our lungs. Displays are easy.

The real need is to pay attention. And act on what we see.

Every single one of us is “the government.” It’s our job to see to the tasks that keep the country going and make it better. To vote. To learn. To pay attention to what’s being done by those acting in our name and hold them to account when necessary – even when they’re on “my team.” To pay attention to our neighbors and their needs, so that we can make a world that’s better for all of us and not just the people who are most like ourselves.

It’s a constant duty.  Most worthwhile jobs are. And it only takes a little inattention to make it all break down. To let fear drive out judgment. To let apathy tolerate “the way things are done.” To let cheering on a team – however hateful or corrupt – replace holding up a country.

it just takes a moment. And as we keep learning, correcting the mistake is always more expensive than preventing it in the first place.

Thank our veterans. And then take your turn. Shoulder your share of the work. Like a bag of candy, a country should not be left unminded.

Because if you do, it’s sure to go to the dogs.

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Staying Awake

The last song had been played. The last story had been read. The sheets were turned back, the favorite purse at hand. Bedtime, right?

“NO.”

“Missy, we talked about this. It’s getting late.”

“NO.”

“Look, it’s softball season. Athletes need their rest, right?”

“NO.”

“Sweetie, you at least need to stay in the bedroom, OK?”

I know some of you right now are nodding at this, like members of a club who have just heard the secret knock. Yes, that periodic ritual of parenthood and guardianship, the Bedtime Battle, was well under way. Like many wars, the tactics had become familiar and the ground well-studied, even if the motive for the conflict had been long forgotten.

“Look, we can leave part of the door open, all right? Is it ok if I close half of it tonight?”

Reluctant nod.

Since Missy’s disability makes it hard for her to communicate, it can take a while to pick through the possible causes when this happens. Sometimes it might be a nightmare. Sometimes it’s just a little soreness from the day’s activity, with some ibuprofen working wonders. Sometimes, all you can do is chalk it up to a disturbance in the Force and do the best you can.

This time, a late-night grocery trip might have been to blame – a time when Missy had woken up while I was still out. It would explain the worry when I started to get out of sight of her door, anyway.

Sigh.

You know, sleeping on a hallway floor can get kind of comfortable after a while?

***

There are a lot of “dad duties” that never make it on the official list.

We all know the stereotypes, right? Good at fixing things. Handy at yard work. Grill master. Voice of discipline when necessary. Ready and enable to initiate others into the mysteries of professional sports fandom.

It’s been shown in sitcoms, plastered on Father’s Day cards, wedged into the back of our minds. And, yeah, some folks do fit the classic resume. (As a kid, I believed – with some justice – that my Dad could fix anything.)

But many of us don’t. And the funny thing is, those aren’t even the core competencies.

It’s not about being manly. It’s about being there.

It’s the shared struggle over math homework at 10 p.m. (Thanks, Dad.)

It’s the off-key middle school choir concerts attended, or the grade-school baseball games where bat and ball have only a passing acquaintance with each other.

It’s the times when you sit on the phone for two minutes waiting for the other caller to say “Hello?”

It’s time together wherever it has to be found – a story, a movie, a puzzle, a game. It’s taking temperatures, and holding hands. And yeah, sometimes it’s outright arguments and struggles to understand.

But if you’re there, however you can be … if you care, and can share it … if you’re awake to the needs and responsibilities involved …  then you’re doing it right, even if you can’t tell a monkey wrench from Curious George.

Thing is, these aren’t just dad duties. They’re mom duties, or cousin duties, or guardian duties, or whoever has the ability to step into that space and be the person that’s needed. Whoever has found themselves in that wonderful and terrifying role of “parent,” even if they don’t share a single strand of DNA.

If you’re there – if you care – if you’re building and not breaking, helping and not harming – then you’re doing it right. And bless you for it.

Take a breath. Rest easy.

And if you’re resting on the hall carpet,  the right pillow makes a world of difference.

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Benedict of the Doubt

When the Pope made his big announcement this week, I was probably one of the few people thinking of car keys.

Not at first, of course. Like a lot of us, my first reaction when Pope Benedict XVI announced he would retire at the end of February was “What? He can DO that?” I guess when a trigger doesn’t get pulled in 600 years, you kind of forget it’s there.

After that? Some sympathy, some jokes, some expressions of good or bad memories of the Pope and what he had or hadn’t done. And of course, some confusion and anger over Benedict’s decision to lay down the Fisherman’s Ring.

“If a Pope is, literally, a father … elected to be a father to the Body of Christ … well, fathers don’t step down,” said one Facebook friend who admitted to being “flabbergasted” by the news.

I can understand the feeling. But I came at it from a different angle.

It’s true that fatherhood isn’t something you can retire from. But it is something you can be forced to lay down. I have at least two close friends who had to become a parent to their fathers because their dads had grown too weak, physically and mentally, to take care of themselves, never mind a family. It was a hard moment for both of them, one born of love and pain, and they weathered it with all the strength they had.

Most of us, I think, haven’t been brought to that point. I hope we never are. But we probably all know someone who has made a smaller decision in deference to age and ability.

Namely, the decision to hang up your car keys for good.

My grandma had to make that decision last year. It wasn’t an easy one. She’s long been used to going where she wants, when she wants: church, the library, the pharmacy, the store. As she got older, she cut out night driving and out-of-town trips, but kept the rest into her 90s.

But when the choice came, it came for a good reason. Her reflexes weren’t what they had been. Small warnings that would have jumped out at her even five years before could be missed now. It wasn’t what she wanted to do – it’s probably not what any of us want to do – but for her safety and that of others, she made the decision.

If I can acknowledge that that’s a good idea for a relatively small responsibility, how much more so for one that could affect the entire world?

“In order to govern the bark of Saint Peter and proclaim the Gospel, both strength of mind and body are necessary,” Benedict declared on Monday, “strength which in the last few months, has deteriorated in me to the extent that I have had to recognize my incapacity to adequately fulfill the ministry entrusted to me.”

Those had to be hard words to say. That he could say them at all wins some respect from me.

Were there other motives behind the decision? Probably. When a world leader surrenders power, it’s rarely just for one reason. I’m sure there’ll be speculation for months on the whys and wherefores, maybe even a book or two.

But for me, for now, the stated reason is more than sufficient. However willing the spirit, there comes a time when the body can’t back it up.

At that point, there’s a strength in surrender. In knowing, and acting on the knowledge, while you remain able.

It’s a sign of wisdom.

You could even call it a key decision.

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And Off They Flu

In case you ever wanted to know, the words I Hate The Flu come up 16.4 million times on a Google search.

By now, Heather’s ready to add another 500,000 personally.

That’s right. My wife is down, despite hope and caution and a flu shot of her own. So is Missy, though our favorite developmentally disabled ward may have actually run head-first into a killer cold instead. But either way, it leaves me in the position of Jerry Lee Lewis, the “Last Man Standing.”

Goodness, gracious, great balls of fire!

It happened on a Wednesday, of course. Strange things often seem to in the Rochat household, be it back injuries or vomiting dogs. If Johnny Cash had lived here when he wrote “Stripes,” the song would have begun:
“On a Wednesday, I was arrested,
“On a Wednesday, they locked me in a cell …”

Ahem. Where was I? Oh, yes, shifting from Carl Bernstein to Florence Nightingale.

From the outside, taking a day off work to care for a sick family might not sound too bad. No one likes having people under the weather, of course, but a change of routine is good, right? A little peace and quiet on “hump day” might be just the thing in a busy week, yes?

I agree. It sounds great.

It bears no resemblance to any kind of reality this week, but it sounds great.

As every parent of small children knows, this is the beginning of a domestic decathlon. Everything’s on you now, from brewing tea to canceling rides, from stories to toast to trips to the bathroom. An Olympic-level competitor in this event will climb and descend stairs like a fly trapped in an M.C. Escher painting, each time bringing up or carrying away something new.

By the time you’re done, the return to work is a well-earned vacation by comparison. But don’t tell my bosses I said that.

(What’s that? Oops. Well, maybe they’ll skip to the comics this week.)

Complain? Not a bit. This is what you do. If I learned nothing else from my own parents, it’s that the biggest part of being a spouse or a parent is being there, even when it’s difficult or inconvenient. No, especially then.

I’m not saying hover constantly. I think we’ve all had more than enough of “helicopter parenting,” even before the Cincinnati college student last December who got a restraining order against her folks. But when a crisis hits, you do the job you’re needed to do.

Pity Congress can’t seem to figure out the same thing, right?

Hmm. Maybe we can use this. This could be the next big march on Washington – a million parents, all with flu-stricken children, advancing on the Capitol. The battle cry would be terrifying in its simplicity: “You don’t mind keeping an eye on them while I run a quick errand, do you? Thanks!”

With the right coordination, we could bring gridlock to its knees. Or at least to its tissue boxes.

So what do you say? Families of the world, unite! We have nothing to lose but our mucus, and millions of Google hits to win!

I think Wednesday’s good for me.