I. Author. 003

 

Abdon Calderon, a young lieutenant who died in the Ecuadorian War of Independence in 1822, was my first superhero.
   The story goes that cannon shots took out both his legs and one arm, but Calderon continued holding up the flag. The story had it that even when his other arm was blown off, he held the staff with his teeth as life ebbed from him.
   My fourth grade teacher, Mr. Lopez, often told us similar stories, but Calderon was his favorite. He was so passionate about him that I entirely believed him until I watched a war movie with my dad. I didn't understand why men were dropping dead from a single bullet wound. I mean, Calderon took four cannon shots! 
   After Dad explained to me the fragility of the human body and the effectiveness of modern weapons of war, he gave me the cold hard truth about the Ecuadorian hero. He even gave me a book that chronicled the Independence Wars, where none other than Mariscal Sucre, leader of the liberation forces, wrote a eulogy in tribute of the young Lieutenant.
   
   "I must note the conduct of Lieutenant Calderon, who having received four successive bullet wounds, refused to retire from the battle field. His sacrifice will be remembered and the new republic will compensate the Calderon family for the services of this hero."

   Abdon Calderon was barely eighteen years old when he led the troops, flag in hand, against the Spanish cannons. Now that's a heroic in itself, but Dad's version blatantly defied our most sacred textbook. 
   El Terruño was read by every student in Ecuador. I was surprised to find the same unrealistic account of the hero, but I liked the new sobriquet in the title: "The Boy Hero." For homework, I was to write a paper on Calderon.
   The day after I handed in my paper, Señor Lopez called me to his desk.
   "Mr. Robayo," he said gravely and paused to study me for a long moment. "I believe you did not take the time to read the material for the assignment."
   I frowned and he immediately grunted a warning. Disrespect was never tolerated.
   "Mr. Lopez, I read the real version of the story of the Boy Hero."
   "The real version?"
   I nodded.
   Mr. Lopez sucked on his lower lip, as was his habit, and finally shook his head before scribbling a grade on the top right corner of my paper: a 15 out of 20, a grade equivalent to a D.
   By the time the day ended, some of my classmates had a good laugh at my first (and only) failing grade while my friends shook their heads in disbelief. 
   Every one who earned above an 18 mentioned the limbs torn off and our brave boy hero holding the flag with his teeth before dying.
   I dreaded Mom's reaction upon coming home, but then I remembered what Calderon taught me.
   I held my paper proudly as I walked through the door, ready to receive the lecture and the punishment, (maybe even wounds) but I was not backing down from the content of my paper. 
   Like the Boy Hero, I faced my ever-demanding mother like he faced the Spanish cannons.  I didn't run into my room the way he didn't run away from the battle field at the first explosion. I stood tall.
   "Javito..." Mom was dumbfounded. Angry. "What's the meaning of this?"
   "I didn't get a fifteen because I wrote my paper wrong, Mom. I got a fifteen because my teacher is completely ignorant when it comes to truthful history."
   Her reply lacked words, but her finger immediately pointed in the direction of the steps.
 

 Alone in my room, the second day into my grounding, I escaped the long hours by writing about boy heroes who never backed down.
   On a happy note, Dad became my Mariscal Sucre when he returned home from a business trip and set my teacher and my mother straight. Dad was my liberator, and when he commended me on my courage for standing behind my writing, I coudn't help the feeling that in my own way, I was also a little bit of a boy hero. 

to  be continued...

Do you consider writing heroic?