As I make my bed this morning, much like I have done since childhood, I take note of the two symbols which guard my bed in my absence: two plush stuffed animals – one, steadfastly old, gifted at birth by my beloved Godmother and one, more recent, gifted by a friend who may have understood the heart inside.
The more recent guardian is a Zorro Vermont Teddy Bear. As a child, I loved Zorro. As a hopeful young woman, married with a young child and a set of difficult circumstances causing me to search for that mythical place called “home”, I loved Vermont. Still today, the tranquil beauty and seeming progressiveness in the midst of Green Mountains holds a certain breathing space for me, while the symbolism Zorro represents holds a fantasy love for which I have longed since a child. No. I am not waiting for Superman. I will continue waiting for Zorro.
Dark, with a Latin swagger, able to envision and willing to stand up for righteousness, Zorro cloaks his status and handsomeness to equalize playing fields for the poor, the downtrodden, the disadvantaged and the unjustly wronged. For him, it isn’t a question of power or riches, it’s always a question of justice. His values are uncompromising and his strength is reflected in his selected gentleness when appropriate. Yet his sword is drawn when there is no other choice. Or so it seems.
And while life has brought me moments of great joy, the myth of that emblematic love that Zorro manifests has remained real within the confines of the guardian faithfully sitting on my morning bed. No. I am not waiting for Superman. I will continue waiting for Zorro.