March 28, 2001
Super dreams meet mortal reality
By GARRET LEIVA
Herald editor
No one asks a 30-year-old what they want to be when they grow up. Which is why I keep all wall-crawling superhero aspirations to my self.
Childhood, however, is that magical moment in life when the words career, job and work are indefinable. A wonderful time when you can truly be anything before the cubicle walls of adulthood come crushing down.
Earlier this week I had a chance to return to that moment. Speaking before the local Boys and Girls Club newspaper club, I explained my role as a journalist. I even wore a tie for the part. The kids peppered me with questions - "how much ink does it take?" "how do you get the pictures on the page?" and the inquisitive "does it smell in there?"
Looking at their eager faces, I wondered if the next Woodward or Bernstein was sitting beside me. Or perhaps the next Peter Parker.
Between 1976 and 1977, I knew without an iota of doubt what I wanted to be when I grew up - Spiderman. My career goal was to be a web-slinging, wall-crawling, able-to-pick-up- 1,000-times-my-own-body-weight superhero. My job would consist of fighting bad guys armed with super powers and bad puns. Heck, I was even willing to work weekends if it meant saving the world.
Of course, being a morally upright superhero is a lot like being a (501)c nonprofit. In order to pay the super Manhattan utility bills, there was the mortal job of Peter Parker - newspaper photographer. Sure I'd have to put up with hot-head publishers like J. Jonah Jameson, but the Daily Bugle would offer medical benefits.
Unfortunately, the ads inside Marvel Comics never sold radioactive spiders, only garlic- flavored chewing gum, X-ray glasses and Sea Monkeys. Nor was there a glowing arachnid grand prize for peddling Grit door-to-door.
Coincidentally, it was right around the time that comic books jumped to 40 cents that I changed my mind about employment - several times.
Taking a cue from my Apollo moon landing wallpaper, I decided to be an astronaut. However, since I could barely stomach the merry-go-round G-forces, it was obvious that I lacked the right stuff. Next came underwater archaeologist, but excelling at the "deadman's float" made me reconsider this career choice. I even briefly entertained the idea of playing for the Detroit Tigers. Sadly, my fastball made Charlie Brown look like 20 game Cy Young winner.
In fourth-grade, however, I found my true calling. My Young Author's short story entry "The French Fries Go Skiing" garnered a third-place trophy. I had found my niche - no one could draw potatoes on downhill skis like me.
As I grew up, however, it became apparent that 'stickman' art would never be fully appreciated. So I cashed in my SoHo dreams for a college scholarship. After two years of majoring in undeclared, I finally decided what I wanted to be- a journalist. I had grown up to be Peter Parker after all.
Today, I wonder how children respond to the age-old question: what do you want to be when you grow up? Perhaps they still dream about becoming astronauts, archaeologists, or even Detroit Tigers (God knows they could use a good left-hander). After all, there is no such thing as career moves for a seven-year-old, only dream chasing.
There are some days when I still wonder what I'll be when I grow up. Perhaps the answer resides in a musty cardboard box; somewhere in the yellowed pages between X-ray glasses and Sea Monkeys.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com