There Goes My Hero

Trigger warning: substance abuse and child abuse

He certainly wasn’t born with secret powers nor superstardom forecast for his future. He wasn’t born into a life built for him – for anyone really – to flourish. And there was nothing early on to suggest that life would turn out any different to those of the kin who came before him. 

And yet, MacMillan Maxwell might just be the greatest superhero you’ve never heard of. 

March 17, 2005, unlikely holds much significance for you or I. And, for most other people around the world, it probably doesn’t carry a whole lot more. But for the people of Houlton, Maine, that date holds an almost holy relevance. It is arguably the most infamous day in the history of the 179-year-old town, situated a little over four miles from the US-Canada border.

Here, MacMillan Maxwell’s name is royalty, and with good reason. After the fearlessness and fortitude displayed five years ago, he became a hero to the town’s 6,123 people. But we’ll get to that.

First, let’s chart his rise from obscurity and poverty, from dangers and difficulties; from nothing. It is a story steeped in struggle for much of its opening 25 chapters. 

Born to drug addict parents, MacMillan lost both of them to overdoses before he had reached the age of five. His dad died after arguing with a rival dope dealer when his son was still in nappies, shot seven times in broad daylight in downtown Bangor, the city where the family moved to shortly after MacMillan was born. 

LeMeritt’s death signalled the end of a brief period of sobriety for MacMillan’s mother, Angela, and she soon spiralled downwards, back into the darkness her family had hoped she’d escaped. She returned to using and was dead not long after, with her son a month past his third birthday. She was found next to a dumpster in an alley behind a Wallgreens in Bangor. Track marks pockmarked her arms like a nasty rash and she’d been badly beaten. The newspapers speculated she’d been behind on drug debts and was made an example of to scare anyone else who thought they could get away with disrespecting local underworld figures.

After that, MacMillan was raised by his maternal grandparents – he and his mon had lived with them since his birth anyway, and they at least offered some stability. Earl and Pearl Johnson doted on their grandchildren – including MacMillan’s older sister Melodee. MacMillan, it seemed, finally had peace and structure in his life, perhaps good things could finally happen. Except, when he was six, Earl died, sadly and suddenly. He was crushed by a car at the autobody shop he worked at in Millinocket, where the family moved to for a fresh start, following Angela’s death. MacMillan was young but his granddad’s death really resonated. He was distraught.

Pearl was a proud, tough and robust woman – mentally and physically. The death of her husband crushed her, more so than the loss of a daughter. But she found solace and purpose in her grandchildren, they kept her young. That was until she had a heart attack one day while MacMillan was at school. He’d gone four years without suffering any tragedy. Pearl left her grandson a few months shy of him going to junior high. 

His grandparents were hard-working folk, but too old to help an already struggling MacMillan with his schoolwork, so he was a little behind the other kids his age when he entered Millinocket Middle School. It led to predictable teasing, bullying and this turned physical the older he got. By the time he got to Stearns High School he was a withdrawn and nervous outcast. He was shunned and ate alone in the cafeteria and was laughed at for not being able to read properly in English class. 

More sinister was the treatment he received at home. The bruises from the bullies aided his foster father in disguising his own drunken, physical abuse of MacMillan, who appeared almost eternally skinny and malnourished throughout his teenage years. MacMillan and Melodee were placed into the system after Pearl’s death and though they stayed together in the group home initially, Melodee was taken in by a childless couple from California after just a few months. She desperately pleaded for them to adopt MacMillan too, but they were adamant about only fostering one child, so her brother stayed put. He wasn’t so lucky when his time came, plucked by Daisy and Ronny Reed, a troubled white couple who had several other foster kids – none of them black. Ronny had a big temper and an even bigger drinking problem, drifting from dead end job to dead end job. How he had passed assessments to be deemed fit and able to foster a child – especially with a racially-motivated assault that he’d been inside for on his record – was beyond irresponsible. 

There were occasional periods of illumination for MacMillan in high school – he met two good people in Penelope Bernardo, his history teacher, and Nelson Gratkowski, who would become his best friend. The first friend he ever had.

How Mrs Bernardo, an elderly white woman over 60, and a lonely, tortured black kid came to strike up a friendship was odd, but it was a bond that solidified intensely as the young man improved academically under her watch, showing a particular interest in and aptitude for history. He was fascinated by the Vikings and Samurais of Scandinavia and the Far East, craved knowledge on the formation of the west and America and discovered a fierce fascination for books. He was hooked on simple animal stories at first but, gradually, Mrs Bernardo led him towards literature and he fell in love with Kerouac’s On The Road. For someone who’d drifted from place to place and really had no sense of belonging or family, it seemed appropriate that the open road inspired a maturing MacMillan.

He and Nelson would talk long and deeply about their dreams of treading the sand at San Simeon and embarking on their very own pancake stop tour of America. They were kindred spirits. Nelson was white but a lot like him. He had a mild speech impediment and was an awkward, scrawny kid. He came from a middle-class family but his father left when he was a child. His sisters showed promise – Ali in gymnastics and Molly in math – while Nelson showed little love for anything but escaping the confines of his adolescence. The pair headed out west together in the summer of 1997, starry-eyed and steadfast in their beliefs they would be gone the entire summer and come back changed men. In truth, they were back within three weeks after getting robbed outside a bar they’d snuck into and sampled their first beers. A pretty young girl flashed a beaming cherry chapstick-scented smile and her tasselled, dirty-blonde hair their way and offered them a smoke outside, whereupon they were assaulted by two burly thugs – one her boyfriend. Relieved of all the money they’d saved up for the trip the boys were forced to return home. They’d only made it to Pennsylvania before the road trip was over.

Despite their obvious disappointment, adventure, of sorts, had been tasted. And there was certainly a change in MacMillan. It was the first real vacation he’d ever had. A sliver of a different, better, more exciting and opportune life had presented itself. All he’d got used to in 17 years was pain, suffering and misery. He was not accustomed to such happiness, such hope, such possibility.

MacMillan returned for his senior year; school had never previously offered a realistic route to a future. Up until that point, simply graduating would have been an almost unachievable feat. But graduate, he did, excelling in his English literature scores, although the excitement was quelled somewhat by the fact he hadn’t bothered applying to colleges as he had no money and had not at all believed that such dreams were within reach. On his 18^thbirthday, however, he received a letter from a local bank informing him a savings account set up in his name had matured and he had enough money to pay for tuition, at least for a small junior college. It had been set up by his grandmother. 

MacMillan scrambled to see if anywhere was accepting late applicants or willing to take in additional numbers. He accepted Washington County Community College’s offer as it was the cheapest and also close by, just 76 miles east, so he could keep in touch with Mrs Bernardo and Nelson. His future was catapulted into orbit soon after. A personal essay, entitled ‘I’m not supposed to be here’, part of his first-year contemporary fiction course, attracted interest from college higher-ups, and then senior figures from more reputable institutions. It won a national literary award. After just one year MacMillan was offered a full ride to Brown, one of the most famous universities in the country. 

After that, life took off for MacMillan. He earned a bachelors degree in English literature and finished top of his class. At Brown he met and fell in love with Amelia Beckhart, a foreign exchange student from England. They married after college and settled back in Houlton, where MacMillan decided he wanted to be a teacher so he could affect people’s lives, like his had been by Mrs Bernardo. Working in a school, he figured he could also help kids on the periphery too, like him and Nelson. Amelia, who’d graduated with a visual arts degree, was trying to get her graphic design business off the ground while working part-time at a bookstore and the library. She had to scale that back slightly when the baby came along though. Avis Pearl Maxwell was born on August 25, 2002. She had deep, dark, hazel eyes that reminded MacMillan of his grandmother and he wanted to name Avis after her. Amelia thought it was perfect.

And so, to March 17, 2005. It was nearing the end of MacMillan’s – or Mr Maxwell I guess it would be appropriate to address him as now – first year at Houlton High School. It had gone great. He’d settled into his new surroundings rapidly, was well liked among his fellow staff and students, and had really connected with students in his contemporary American history class. Being young he was seen as more approachable than older, traditional colleagues. He related to the kids and was warm and friendly but not their friend, he was not scared to discipline and was keenly aware of the line between teacher and confidante, though he did lean closely toward it. His after-school sessions quickly became incredibly popular and widely attended – including by students he didn’t even teach. And while the nature of them was to offer additional help or insight with work he set in class, it was also an opportunity for open discussion on anything; from family and social life to world issues or sports. In school he was their superior, but the after-school sessions were more casual, an arena where he could afford to be more of a friend or a listener rather than an educator.

After the 3.30pm bell sounding the end of the school day had ceased, MacMillan waited a few minutes before making his way from his quiet classroom – he had last period free on Wednesdays so he’d taken advantage of the silence to finish some paperwork – down the east wing corridor, past the back of the gymnasium and weight room where he saluted Coach Spivak, and made his way down to the humanities and arts department to classroom number H3 where his intrepid and inquisitive hoard of 15 and 16-year-olds were no doubt waiting anxiously for him to arrive and open this week’s forum. Edgar Allan Poe was the theme; each week there was a loose one attached to his get-togethers, but it could quickly deviate towards another topic.

For a split second as he touched his hand to the chrome door handle a strange chill struck him. He didn’t have time to think about it further because as soon as he opened the classroom door and presented himself before the group, the barrel of the Sig Sauer P320 was presented to his face and he was rushed by the anxious gasps of the classroom. The kid holding the 9mm nitron semi-automatic pistol wasn’t immediately obvious to him, due to the black bandana and hoodie covering his head and face. Even though he wasn’t one of MacMillan’s students, he recognised Jesse Blake within seconds. He was a good kid by all accounts but was a bit of a loner, neither academically nor athletically gifted, and came from a one-parent household. MacMillan had seen him occasionally and recalled walking past him on his way home from school one day, suddenly overpowered by an intoxicating aroma of marijuana. That was around October last year and Jesse had been suspended a few weeks ago by the school board; he’d been found selling pot to a couple of freshmen, on campus. MacMillan could tell he was high now, sweating profusely, his pupils darting left and right. 

“Jesse,” MacMillan stated, boldly, but calmly. Jesse seemed confused, as if he didn’t expect MacMillan to know him. But MacMillan had been the kid no-one knew in school; upon entering education he earnestly wanted to eradicate the chances of students feeling the cold tinge of being an outsider.

***

It would be nice to tell you that the goodness inside MacMillan, the pain and the suffering that he’d endured throughout his life, served him well in this situation. That while he found himself in a dire circumstance, it was fitting that a man who’d experienced such hardship, such ostracism, such loneliness in his life, should find himself in a predicament where he now came face to face with another troubled kid. If anything, MacMillan might have stood the best chance of convincing Jesse to lower the gun and not hurt anyone. But toixicology tests conducted afterwards revealed weed was not the only substance in Jesse’s system. He’d consumed a large amount of PCP, as well as Xanax, so it was highly unlikely anyone could have talked sense into him. A separate investigation following the shootings and subsequent searches of his school files revealed Jesse had been prescribed Xanax following the sexual abuse he’d suffered at the hands of one of his mom’s most recent boyfriends; he was the one who’d also got Jesse hooked on PCP. 

There was no-one in the class that day Jesse had specifically targeted or someone he felt had wronged him. He’d just wondered onto campus at the end of the day knowing not many people would be around but that someone would be there for him to scare. MacMillan’s focus was on his kids and getting them out. He wanted to draw Jesse’s attention away from them so he backed up towards the door as if preparing to leave so Jesse would lock in on him. MacMillan fixed his gaze on Ciara Parker and Jenson Ritter. He slowly and carefully moved his eyes from them and looked left, attempting to point out the side door to the courtyard was slightly ajar. They began shuffling, slowly, to the exit, but Jesse heard them and turned around. As he did MacMillan lunged, knocking him off his feet, although he was unable to jolt the gun from his grasp. A dark madness spread across Jesse’s face as he brought the chunky black mass of the pistol up to MacMillan’s face and pulled the trigger. MacMillan did not see the next few seconds of chaotic panic as the students at the back scrambled and sprinted outside. Jesse froze as the horror of the moment slowly seeped into his brain. He looked at the barrel, still smoking. As the piercing, scared screams of his former classmates echoed inaudibly and the sound of scampering footsteps quietly vanished, he placed the gun under his chin and pulled the trigger a second time, blasting the back of his head out as he slumped onto the floor; the red splatters intermingling with the yellow streaks of sunlight streaming in through the windows.

MacMillan was no Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne or Peter Parker – ordinary men who discovered and were even burdened by extraordinary superpowers – but he was every bit as gallant. Some superheroes possess nerves of steel, but also a fatal flaw. Perhaps MacMillan’s was simply that he was just an ordinary man, with an extraordinary story to tell. Now, some people equate a superhero as someone possessing the strength of 1,000 men, leaping tall buildings or reducing them to rubble with a mere touch or power of their mind. But, really, being a superhero or having superpowers boils down to simply being, or doing something, extraordinary. MacMillan Maxwell is my kind of superhero.

***

Mrs Bernardo places a different superhero figurine on top of a granite headstone shaped like a shield – an unintended homage to his now eternal status as a protector – situated towards the back south west corner of the cemetery when she visits every year on the anniversary of MacMillan’s death. It’s usually snowing in Millinocket this time of year and such is the case on this bitterly cold day, with a fresh covering the previous night adding a spectacular, yet eerie, layer to an already sombre and spooky arena. She’s up to five now, with Superman, Batman and Spiderman having been joined by Wolverine in the superhero elite in recent years. This year they have become the famous five, with Black Panther taking his place among the pantheon of the brave. She delicately wipes white powder of the tops of the figurines’ heads and arms, taking care not to topple them. MacMillan is in good company among these stars. And while his is the least renowned name among them, he is no less special. In fact, he might just be the most miraculous of them all.