If the Ninja Turtles had a mother,
I’d be her – an overly pure-hearted
woman with a penchant for rescuing
victims and conquering evil.
I’d prod them to stand up to injustice,
teach them the difference between hiding
and protecting themselves, encourage them
to reveal their soft-underbellies with pride.
I’d teach them the importance of humility,
(thus the masks), to never back down in
the face of danger, and above all to treat
women as equals, defend friends.
If I birthed the Ninja Turtles, I would
expect their undying loyalty, be certain
that I could call them at any moment,
feel safe and secure in my aging.
Should they ever let me down, ignore
my cries for help, I would know they
were in trouble, would brace myself
to fight the evil that plagued them.
Become a superwoman, a christ-like
figure, casting out demons, saving
the world, demonstrating that I am
worthy of my place as matriarch.
Take myself so seriously, I would not
notice that others are disinterested,
self-absorbed, or asleep, unaware of
our super-powers, worship their own.
Did I say worship? Am I somehow
delusional, so well-intentioned,
idealistic, that I cannot see the
impossibilities here – have ignored
that these are mutants, not children
been so focused on the heroic –
believed in the power of fiction –
blinded to the caricature I’ve become?
Of course the Ninja Turtles do not
have a mother, are the brainchild
of their illustrator, whose creative
blood enliven them, scripts them.
Seems I need to find a project of
my own, address my biological
ravings in a more productive, less
fictionalized manner – get real.