My Short Stories

Super Mary (Essay)

Making friends was never a superpower of mine. But I still tried, stubborn and oblivious. Oh, I tried. Back in my early years of school, when I was merely a 3-foot peanut of a person, I had convinced myself that everyone needed a best friend. There were the twins, two girls who always found new ways to ditch me. My mother told me the story of when I invited them over once; they stole my toys and played by themselves. I remember coming up to talk to them, and they told me I wasn't their friend because I didn't know their secret handshake. There was that one girl from girls' scouts. We routinely fought about everything, yet I somehow remember her as a friend. I remember a group of girls from my 2nd-grade class that I tried to get along with. Think the Plastics, but 6-year-olds.

Amid my futile attempts at making friends, I instead was met with waves of probing from the other students. My own Regina George led the class, of course. She would nitpick the way I walk—saying that the way I swayed my ponytail was purposeful. She was correct. I had a mane of hair and flaunted it. She also said I couldn't cross my legs because only adult women could do that. She, naturally, had her own legs crossed when she told me this.

There were some other events like this from the other classmates. One instance, in particular, has been ingrained in my head ever since. I was sitting in the cafeteria with my class. Each class was small enough that we had designated tables. As we were sitting there, my head hung low as I quietly ate, someone spoke up from across the table.

"Hey, do you want a goldfish?"

Ignoring the snickers of my classmates, I looked at them in shock. I was simply excited that someone was actually talking to me and grabbed the goldfish without a second thought. But as I swallowed the meager treat, everyone burst into a laughing fit.

"Ew! He spat on that before you ate it! You're so gross!"

My eyes fell back on the person that had handed it to me, staring at them in disbelief.

"Stop staring; look at your own food while eating."

Needless to say, I have trust issues. And without going into further details of my trauma, you get the point. I felt trapped, completely alone, and frankly, depressed. But at 7 years old, I didn't even know what depression meant, let alone know that was what I was feeling. One day, however, I decided I wanted to write a story. I don't know what made me decide to write; I just picked up a pencil and started scribbling out my own little world.

The story was titled Super Mary, and as the name suggests, it was me as a superhero. I felt trapped, so I created my own world where I could do anything. I could fly, shoot lasers out of my eyes, and make any object appear out of thin air. Not so original of an idea when you think of Superman and every children's cartoon ever, but it did the trick. My masterpiece was finished at a whopping 8 pages, with one paragraph on each page and a few pictures. It told the story of Super Mary fighting a giant gorilla that was terrorizing her city. Which sounds like Godzilla; my elementary school self was not that original. Super Mary won by punching the gorilla all the way to Hawaii, where he then ran away "screaming like a little girl." I couldn't make this up if I tried; I still have the original.

Even though my story didn't stop the bullying or make my situation better, it made it simpler. I had a world that I could reside in and rely on, with me as the hero and not the victim.

Fast forward a few years, and I've moved away from that town. Finishing up my last two years in elementary school, I still have yet to make a friend. I was so isolated from my peers because of those previous experiences; I didn't know how to make friends. Additionally, I had forgotten about Super Mary, as she had fulfilled her purpose, and I was on my own once more.

I also didn't do any writing after Super Mary. It was a one-hit-wonder, and I felt no need for a sequel. But then, of course, life decided to kick me while I was down once more. In 5th grade, I watched all the 6th graders graduate. It was a small ceremony where they walked around the school and said goodbye to everyone. In that instance, I was hit with a sudden inexpressible feeling of adomania—which describes the sorrow of thinking the future is coming too soon. In short, I felt as if nothing was ever going to be the same and that I was growing up much too quickly. I've learned it's a prevalent feeling in college students on their first week.

During this time, inspiration hit once more, and I wrote another story. This one was titled Monsters, and it was of my two beloved characters, Jake and Daisy. They could use a small circular tool to look through and see these invisible monsters around their school. I remember scribbling on separate pages what the monsters looked like and their abilities. In this story, they were best friends, inseparable as they grew together. In the end, they eventually saved the school and became love interests.

It was an incredible story, and I made sure to share it with everyone. No one remembers it, but I do. I remember what Jake and Daisy looked like in my mind when I first envisioned them. The wonder in my mind as I wrote the story. I can't find a copy of it anywhere, but it is still my favorite story to this day.

That story helped me escape from the existential crisis I had. I found a way to break free from the real world and create my own. Much like what Super Mary did for me, but this time, it wasn't just me. I had my own friends, ones that I created. Friends that I could do anything with, who would never leave me. Jake and Daisy taught me to stand up for myself; they gave me a voice when I had none. As time went on, I wrote more and more about them. Anytime I needed to draw from my character's endless energy and unconditional love, I simply wrote a new chapter for their story.

I began to love writing. I would look forward to it. I believe writing with pen and paper is much more personal than typing. Like how many car guys prefer manuals over automatics, it's like you're a part of the process, rather than it simply happening on its own. Writing has become my passion, my life. All thanks to those two little stories, I know how to stand up for myself during life's challenging moments. Those stories have changed me for the better, and I would never have been able to make it here without them.