Kryptonian Frybread

by Byron Graves

Superman. Indiana Jones. Luke Skywalker. E.T. Okay … So maybe not E.T. But for the majority of my childhood, all of the heroes I’d pretend to be like when I played make-believe all had something in common. The television shows and movies I watched and the books I read all centered and highlighted straight, Caucasian males. So what? They were great stories and fun, inspiring characters. Sure. So, who cares, then? Well, I do. And here is why.

As my childhood expired, and my teen years began, it was time to form who I was going to be, not who I was imagining I was anymore. It was time to envision what college degree I should choose, what kind of career path I might want to begin planning for, what kind of person I would be once high school was over and I was out in the world. But that was harder than I had imagined it to be. Why? Perhaps it was because I hadn’t ever had the opportunity to watch myself fly through the skies of Metropolis fighting off bad guys, saving the galaxy from Darth Vader, or portraying the dashing debonair who kisses the beautiful love interest before the credits roll. I had been limited to the world in front of me, the fishbowl I was living in, not infinite universes of possibilities.

For a long time, I searched for myself. There was a hole in my heart and darkness in my soul. I couldn’t picture being a hero. I half-heartedly chased passions. I tried making a career in basketball, but quit once I got to a level that felt too difficult for me. I tried making music and later gave acting a shot, but quit both of those too. Something inside of me was missing. Discipline perhaps. Maybe it was that extra bit of grit and perseverance you always hear about at award shows when the winning actor is giving their speech about how many times they almost gave up or how many times they were rejected. But most importantly, what I know deep down that I was missing the absolute most—that would have changed things above all else—was purpose. A meaning.