The Hero Next Door Read online

  We sit in my abuela’s studio, facing the large windows that make it the warmest room in their house.

  Resting our plates on her drawing table, we see way beyond their garden, as the Andes Mountains become gigantic shadows and the sun disappears.

  * * *

  I often worry about my abuelos. My abuelo says they are not that old. But I know they aren’t young. Also, Abuela’s heart isn’t strong. She got sick when she was little. She was so horribly ill that days of high fevers affected her heart.

  Abuela might not be strong enough to climb mountains, but she’s courageous. She’s been through so many heart surgeries, the kind where they open your chest as if they’re unzippering it, breaking ribs to get to the heart. Despite all the pain she’s had, Abuela is always laughing about something, her deep laughs filling the room with a hearty roar.

  One time I asked Abuela when she had been the happiest in her whole life. She said, “I remember running like the wind when I was six years old. After that, I was too sick to even stand or walk. I was stuck in bed endlessly. But thankfully, there’s too much to do and appreciate, even if you have to stay lying down! Stacks of books started quickly accumulating by my bedside, as I decided to read and learn all I could about the world.”

  Abuela loves history and architecture. She couldn’t go to college because of her weak heart, but being endlessly curious and hungry for knowledge, she found ways to learn about mechanics and beautiful designs. In her woodshop, she built puzzles and clocks and even sailboats. Abuela is an extraordinary engineer.

  She might not have a strong beating heart, but she’s determined. Like the hummingbirds that visit her garden, Abuela’s body might be delicate and often need rest, but she’s an amazing builder.

  * * *

  Abuela says, “Throughout my life, I’ve had to stay still, but your abuelo has always been on the move. When he was little, he dreamed of being a pilot. With help from his siblings, he’d jump off the roof of his house, inside an enormous cauldron, landing safely on the leafy abutilons and fig trees planted in the garden.”

  That surely got him into serious trouble! His mom—my great-grandma—didn’t like the idea of him jumping off roofs…and even less, the idea of him becoming a pilot.

  Eventually, my abuelo gave up on the idea of flying, and instead became a medical doctor, a brain surgeon.

  Over our onces in the late afternoon, as we watch birds eating from the feeders my abuelos have built, Abuelo tells me about how he left Colombia to study in Chicago. Abuela wipes from her fingers the fine crumbs left behind by the achiras. She gets up and leaves the woodshop while Abuelo is describing Chicago—a magical place where he found his love for blues and jazz, and where he enjoyed meeting people with unique and extraordinary stories. He loved living there, but he also found it very hard. Especially in the cold weather. Sometimes, even spring-like Bogotá feels cold to him. That’s why he likes his cafecito boiling hot and he wears a puffy jacket inside the house.

  * * *

  Abuela comes back holding a large tin box full of old pictures. She takes out a photo of a tall man with dark hair. He’s wearing a white coat, and his legs are halfway buried in snow. That surely isn’t Bogotá!

  I read the inscription on the back: Fernando, 1953.

  Abuelo tells me about how he used to shovel coal after his long surgery shifts. He worked back-to-back shifts so he could sleep on empty gurneys instead of having to pay housing rent.

  I ask Abuelo why he had to work all the time.

  They both sit quietly for a while. Abuelo explains. “While I was studying neurology in Colombia, I went back home to find out everything had been burnt to ashes. After a prominent presidential candidate was murdered, there were violent riots in Bogotá. The city was on fire, Juani.” He pauses.

  “My grandfather’s chemistry books had been destroyed. My sisters’ toys had melted. My parents were left hopeless. I was the oldest son. I promised myself I would do everything I could to help my family rebuild their home and get back on their feet. I was young and I didn’t know how to help my family. I went to a place where I’d often found answers to my questions: the library.” There, a librarian friend told Abuelo of scholarships available to study abroad. Diligently, he applied to as many as he could.

  * * *

  Abuelo received a prestigious scholarship that allowed him to follow his dream: to keep learning about the human brain while helping his family. He packed his few belongings, and after a difficult goodbye, he left home.

  “A small plane, so flimsy it appeared to be scratching its belly on the Andes Mountains, flew me from Bogotá to coastal Barranquilla. Once I recovered my strength from that flight, I jumped on a steamboat, which battled its way up the furious Magdalena River, where caimans rested on its shores.” Docking in Panama, he boarded a new plane with a further destination: Miami. “Once in Miami, I flew to Chicago, my home for the next couple of years.” This adventure lasted weeks. Today, I’d need less than ten hours to leave Bogotá and comfortably land in Chicago!

  * * *

  Abuela has heard this story a million times, but she’s not bored by it. While she sips her coffee, she sketches a new project she’s working on. Every now and then she lifts her head and tells me something else about the old pictures, or laughs heartily at Abuelo’s remarks.

  They know each other so well. Better than I’ll probably get to know anyone in my life!

  Abuelo was often told by friends and family that he shouldn’t marry Abuela. After all, she was quite sick, and many doctors said she wouldn’t live long. But Abuelo loved her fierce drive and enormous curiosity. When Abuelo proposed to Abuela, he gave her a delicate watch with a sophisticated automatic mechanism. This watch only needed the slight movement of the wearer’s wrist to keep working.

  “I told your abuela I’d love to spend every minute of my life with her.”

  Then I noticed Abuela’s wrist. How she moved her wrist while she ate her achiras and brushed away the crumbs. How she moved her arms gracefully as she looked through pictures, sharing their history with me. How every drawing she made gave her watch more time to beat.

  My abuelos have helped a lot of people. After living for many years in Chicago, New Orleans, and Boston, they returned to Colombia. Abuelo was one of the first brain surgeons in the country. Many patients urgently needed operations, but there was no equipment for Abuelo to perform surgery.

  Abuela was quick to find a solution: she helped design and build surgical equipment with dedication and utmost precision.

  Building surgery equipment was their first collaboration. Now they build birdhouses together for the blackbirds, hummingbirds, and orioles that visit their garden.

  It’s not just birds (and me!) who visit my abuelos. Many friends and important guests visit. That’s how I’ve met Nobel laureates, important scientists, and highly revered doctors. Everyone has a fascinating story. But Abuelo’s favorites are his former patients. They come from all walks of life: farmers, photographers, dancers, teachers…even a president.

  Abuelo was known for performing operations without charging his patients. He says, “I can’t just sit still when there’s a way to help a sick person.” His patients often bring him heartfelt presents. Cheese from their farms, fresh flowers, original paintings, or knitted scarves.

  People love my abuelos because of their giving nature and generous spirit.

  On my visits, I enjoy their great stories. Abuelo taught me how to tie my shoes and write my name. He’s always telling me, “Juani, find out how things work. Stay curious!” Abuela tells me to see beauty everywhere, even in the smallest things. I promise that no matter what happens, I’ll remember this always. Just like the watch Abuelo gave Abuela, every little nudge they give me keeps me going.

  Thrown

  Mike Jung

  Attacking Anika Sensei during aikido instruction is aw
esome because she does throws better than anyone. I mean, obviously—she’s the teacher. That’s why we call her “sensei.”

  I wasn’t the only one hoping to attack—Martha Bee was bouncing in place so hard that I could feel the floor vibrating. I can’t always tell what people next to me are doing, but when Martha’s in Energizer Bunny mode it’s hard to not tell.

  “Martha, please sit in a good seiza,” Anika Sensei said.

  Seiza is how we sit in aikido—legs under us, toes pointing back, knees apart, hands on thighs, and no bouncing. Martha stopped. Mostly.

  “Ryo kata tori kokyu nage tenkan! Stevie, please!”

  Yeah! I slapped my hands and forehead down in a bow, jumped up, and ran across the cushioned blue mats until I was facing Sensei from ten feet away. The other aikido kids sat in line to my left, watching, which used to make me nervous when I was new.

  Sensei dropped her arms to her sides and I ran at her, reaching for her shoulders. Just as I got there, she stepped sideways and toward me, pushed my right arm down, tucked her hand under my left elbow, and threw me. I tucked my head into my chest and rolled across the mats and onto my feet, facing back at Sensei. I attacked again and she threw me again from the other side. I sprang up again and she held up a palm, so I flopped into seiza.

  “This technique starts with a double shoulder grab,” Anika Sensei said. I kept my eyes on her as she explained the move—there were two new students, Anna somebody and Linnea somebody, so Sensei talked more than usual. Then we demonstrated again.

  “Thank you, Stevie.” Sensei turned back to the class. “With a partner.”

  Everyone bowed, and I hurried over to Martha, who was bouncing again. I’m older than her—I’m eleven, she’s ten—but only by four months, and we’re both red belts, so we’re evenly matched. I backed onto the mats and waited. Martha set her feet, pushed up her glasses with a thumb, and charged. Bam, turn, kapow, knock down her arm, and whoosh, do a perfect throw.

  Aikido. It’s the best thing ever.

  * * *

  —

  I know I’ve been at Twin Rivers Aikido for two years because every year Anika Sensei sends certificates saying how long we’ve been there. You don’t get a red belt unless you’re good, so when Anika Sensei said I could start going to teen and adult class, I was excited but not surprised. I didn’t say so, though. We’re supposed to be all humble and stuff.

  “You’re ready,” Anika Sensei said. We were sitting in seiza, facing each other.

  “Thank you, Sensei.”

  “Questions?”

  I like how Anika Sensei doesn’t rush me while I figure out what to say. Even Mom and Dad do it sometimes, but the worst Anika Sensei does is tell me to think about it and ask again later.

  “Will we practice weapons every time like we do here?”

  “Teens and adults have a separate weapons class; you can definitely attend, but you’ll get lots of practice here.”

  “Hai.” That’s Japanese for “yes.” It’s also kind of like saying “Aye, aye, Captain” to your sensei.

  “Anything else?”

  “Do you go to the teen and adult classes?”

  “Not all of them, but I’ll be there on Tuesday evenings.”

  Good to know. We turned at the sound of more kids arriving. Martha was already inside with her equipment bag and weapons case, Trinity was bowing in, and Sofia and Malik were giggling about something just outside the door.

  “I’ll let you get back to warming up.” Anika Sensei bowed—her bows were very precise—and stood up.

  “Hai, Sensei.” I bowed, too, then ta-da! Martha was there.

  “Hey! So?”

  “So…what?”

  “You’re so funny. When do you start teen and adult classes?”

  “Tuesday.”

  Martha began stretching her legs. “Awesome! Is Arthur here?”

  Martha Bee and Arthur Levit were the two people I had already known before starting aikido. In third grade Arthur and I were in the same class for the first time, and when Martha moved to town, she was put in there, too.

  “Nope.”

  “Humph.” Martha pressed the sole of her right foot against the inside of her left leg and grabbed her toes.

  “He’s probably tired from the trip.”

  “Probably. It’s weird that you’ll be training with my mom.”

  “I like your mom.”

  Martha’s mom is one of the only adults besides my sensei and my parents who talk about autism without making me feel bad.

  “Me too—I mean, duh, she’s my mom—but you’ve been doing aikido longer, so you’re probably way better!”

  “ ‘Probably’? Don’t you know?”

  “We’re in different classes, you know.” Martha sat up, brought the soles of her feet together, and leaned forward.

  “It’s weird that I’ll train with your mom before you do.”

  “Yup!” Martha leaned forward on her hands and frog-hopped up onto her feet. “Let’s practice rolls!”

  We spread out, and as I dropped my arm, tucked my head, and rolled, I felt superconfident. Plus, I’d finally get to learn from Brandon Sensei, who was autistic too. Autistic me learning from an autistic teacher was the whole reason Mom had suggested Twin Rivers Aikido in the first place. How hard could teen and adult class be?

  * * *

  —

  News flash: teen and adult class was SO HARD.

  I knew the tall black belt facing me was named Kristof—I’d seen him at the dojo community dinners—but I hadn’t trained with him before. We first did a technique where you pivot, raise your arms, and do a throw that’s basically a mutant elbow strike. I’d done it literally hundreds of times. Easy-peasy, right?

  WRONG. Kristof’s arm fell from the sky like a sawed-off tree. Instead of doing a side fall, whirling my legs, and getting up, I buckled like an accordion, got my feet crossed, and toppled onto my back. I staggered as I got back up.

  Why was Kristof smiling? I’ve practiced telling what it means when people do specific things with their faces and I’m good at it, but I couldn’t tell why he was smiling. Maybe I was too distracted by his superbristly beard.

  When it was my turn to throw Kristof, I kept stopping and starting over. I was used to people the size of Sofia, who was taller than me, but not ridiculously taller. Kristof was like a skyscraper, though; bringing my arm down at his head was impossible.

  Anika Sensei was there, but she wasn’t teaching, and Brandon Sensei didn’t explain stuff as much as she did. Jenna and Julie Chung were there, too, but Jenna and I were only in the kids’ class together for two months before she moved up, and Julie was older than Jenna. They were at least closer to my size, though. I tried to partner with them, but everything moved too fast, and they always seemed to pair up with black belts or each other.

  Martha’s mom had mediocre technique, but she was incredibly strong, so when she threw me, she really threw me. A broad-shouldered blue belt named Miles almost elbowed me in the face while blocking punches. I kept standing the wrong way, doing elbow grabs instead of wrist grabs, and forgetting what to do with my arms.

  It was a very long class.

  At pickup time I bowed to Brandon Sensei (I was in nontalking mode so I couldn’t thank him verbally), grabbed my stuff, and went out to the hallway to hug Dad.

  “How’d it go?” he said.

  I closed my eyes and breeeeeeeathed.

  “Ah. It’s okay, Stevie. You’re okay. Let me talk to Sensei real quick and we’ll go.”

  Dad’s autistic like me, but he says he’s neurotypical-passing (which means people can’t tell he’s autistic just by looking at him) because he’s practiced so much. He smiled at me, eyebrows raised and lips together, as I leaned into him. I sat on the bench right outside the dojo as Anika Sensei came
out and said hello.

  I felt so thrashed that everything around me was a foggy blur, so I tucked my red belt into my bag and pulled out my new book. It was good to just read.

  “…”

  I didn’t know how the author decided to combine figure skating and martial arts, but it was genius.

  “…Stevie…”

  I’d started the book at breakfast while Mom and Dad talked about the usual stuff like politics and whether I should read during breakfast, and I was up to page 157.

  “Stevie.”

  There was a light pressure on my shoulder. I looked up to see Dad’s face.

  “Dad. Read this.” I held up Peasprout Chen: Future Legend of Skate and Sword. “It’s awesome.”

  “I know, buddy. I gave it to you, remember? How about wearing your shoes?”

  “The car’s right there, Dad.”

  I could actually see it. Dad was parked right in front of the building, which used to be a warehouse but was now full of art studios, welders, and our dojo.

  “City sidewalks, little man. There might be—”

  “Broken glass, I know. And I’m not little. Or a man.”

  “Shoes, champ.”

  “Okay.”

  My pile of stuff slid onto the floor as I dug out my shoes. After carefully tying my shoelaces (it’s important to get the double knots equal on both sides), I put everything into a new pile, this time in my arms. I nodded at Dad over the pile, and he chuckled. It was our usual post-aikido routine, and it would have felt good if class hadn’t felt so bad.