Heidi Moore

My mom, Carol Offield, has led an amazing life as a powerful woman who has performed spectacular feats no one else could have.  I continue to be amazed by her daily.  

She has been a businesswoman, single parent, philanthropist, great friend, kind mother, bridge maven, and now she is a grandmother, too. 

She is unquestionably a phenomenal superheroine: It seems as though she stopped a speeding locomotive well over a hundred times when she interrupted what I was sure was the end of the world.  She soothed me with stories about what happened when she was my age, or about what happened to my grandma, or my dad.  Somehow the world, which had been barreling forward like a rocket at the speed of light at a target of complete destruction, suddenly was sailing uncomplicated in the breeze like a kite.  Then we could just laugh.  She said things like, “Stop worrying when you don’t have all the facts!” and I never listened, until I found myself repeating them to my students, hoping I could be half as smart as her.

It took the super-strength of a superheroine to be a single parent to two spirited children, particularly the demanding, devious, and difficult daughter I know I was.  

It was this super-strength, superheroine wisdom that gave her the good sense to make our childhood richer than any other kids I know: She was superheroine smart for reading aloud Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. books, instead of stuff like Stuart Little. Superheroine smart for letting us take lots of mental health days, so the other kids would have a chance to catch up.  Superheroine smart for going on strike, so we did the grocery shopping in primary school.  That was harder than doing it the standard way….and so much more fun.

Just like a superhero of stage and screen, she leapt tall buildings in a single bound when she solved the insolvable for me.  The superheroine trick that no one else’s mom could figure out was that she never did things for me.  She taught me how to do the tasks myself—beginning in kindergarten. My insolvable problem at the time was that I didn’t believe I belonged in kindergarten and wanted to advance to first grade.  So she set up a meeting for me to discuss it with the principal. Superheroine lessons, I guess. But that meeting (and, I’m sure, a bunch of background phonecalls I didn’t know about) solved an insurmountable problem. What kindergartener can talk her way into first grade? Me, it turned out, but not without her superheroine mom’s help!

My mom’s most amazing superheroine feat of solving the unsolvable and even time traveling occurred as she has cared for me as I have been sick.  The whole process of managing my illness and running a business would have caused someone else to give up.  I am so much work, and I am fully aware and very sorry that I do not always have the sunniest of dispositions.  She managed my difficult demands while living with me for several months while I was the sickest.  That’s a tall building if I ever heard it—running a business, as well as commuting back and forth between two cities.  On some days, that surely involved time travel.

Ultimately, it involved choosing between paying close attention to her business and paying close attention to me, and because I won, her business lost.  I just feel dreadfully guilty about that.  But I feel so, so eternally grateful for the gift I have had of her loving care, and her great company.

Superheroines don’t have much of a reputation for being very much fun to be around. This is one way she is nothing like a superheroine. In fact, she is great fun! We have had so much fun going around here and there and dreaming up schemes.  What a fantastic gift that has been to be with her.  

It is not surprising, then, that so many people in my life have met her and arrived at the same conclusion: Each, individually, has said the same thing:  “She’s an angel!”  So true.  A superheroine angel.  That’s what she is. I hope she is super-mortal because I never want to lose her!

Dashiell and Ryder

Dashiell and Ryder are the sons of a friend, who found out about this project, and wanted to take part, even though they didn't have lunchboxes. I'm game, and think they did a great job.


"I, Dashiell chose Curtis Granderson as my box dude/guy because he is a good teammate. He is a 5 tool player, which means he meets all the expectations of baseball: speed, consistency, power, composure, and range.
Curtis Granderson is the centerfielder for the NY Yankees. "

"I Ryder, picked Monopoly Man because he helps me get through rainy days!"

Cappy Sue

When my shared this project it sounded like a ball.  Doing a group project is not something I get to do a lot of and what a neat topic: super heros.  My biggest problem when I sat down to work on this was that so many different people and animals come to mind. For me what makes a super hero is not the ability to save people or fly but the ability to inspire other people in a positive way.  The positive way might not always be what is intended but that is just what I grabbed on to in people so I went with that.

One side has photos of my grandmother and a label for the book portable curmudgeon.  The reason is she was a curmudgeon. She was fantastic and inspiring had a will of iron.  She was the type of woman who grew her own roses and asked for a shotgun for her 80th birthday.  To me, she was a shining example of not letting others chose who you should be.

The flip side is a photo of Jean Harlow. In a whole different way I find her ability to be comfortable in her skin and embrace her bombshell self and get things done very inspiring.

The rest of my lunchbox is pretty much covered in photos of animals because they have a kindness and honesty it is rare to see in people.


Anyhow that is my wide and weird world of heroes.  Oh just for a weird note I filled the inside of the box with bits of paper I found inspiring. Things like a lost mothers day card a small boy had written for his mother that I found in a book I bought.  Another is cards from people who had sent little bits of money to help with a loved one's funeral. In my book, just less well known - but still inspiring - heroes.

Robert Sanchez

Starting the Superhero Lunchbox Challenge was really daunting. Who was I going to choose to depict as a superhero? A group of individuals? Someone in history? Someone I knew? Finally I decided to limit it to one person, and chose a superhero who did something with no thought for longevity or greatness, but has become a symbol for freedom. I chose the man commonly referred to as “Tank Man," the man who stood down a line of four tanks in Tiananmen Square during the 1989 student protests for economic reform and liberalism in China. (I decided to call him “Tank Guy,” Tank Man sounded formal and almost like the actual name of a Marvel comic book character, and I liked the familiarity of calling him “Tank Guy,” just a regular guy who made an extraordinary decision.)

On one side of the lunchbox, I used the famous Associated Press image of the unidentified man in action, “artifying” it in Photoshop in a metallic tint and adding “Tank Guy” in a superhero-esque font. On the opposite side, I used a photo of Tiananmen Square, also artified through Photoshop, with the image of the gentleman in four graduated sizes soaring toward the sky, with “Real Superhero” in the same font as the other side. I also include the phrase “superhero lunchbox” in the bottom left corner, and “Tiananmen Square” in the bottom right corner. I used a clear sealant on both sides to protect the images.

On the narrow sides of the lunchbox, I used dual Chinese symbols for peace and freedom for added decoration. On the bottom, I placed the symbols for righteousness and love.

Lana Nieves - Ma: Tiny, But Mighty

I didn't find this lunchbox - it found me. Walking down towards the ocean, in San Francisco's Outer Sunset district, I found a free-box outside of an organic food co-op. The sign over the box read, "Everything here is free for the taking - recycle, reuse, enjoy!" The free-box contained mostly old, broken toys - lots of Matchbox cars with wheels missing, random Lego bricks, Pokemon cards. Under these, though, lay a small, metal lunchbox. About half the size of a standard lunchbox. The theme was Batman, and it seems to have been part of some card collector set: collect all the new Batman cards, and keep them in this handy, mini lunchbox. I fell in love. The perfect canvas had landed in my lap.

My mother was an extraordinary woman. Funny, smart, opinionated, loving, fiercely loyal, loud, wise, bossy. Some people found her to be a little bit scary, at times. She did not mince words. She had a fiery temper. She had a heart as big as all of Brooklyn, and was extremely generous.  On the other hand, Brooklyn and the Caribbean both coursed through her veins: she knew how to stand up for herself and her loved ones, hold a grudge, tell someone off in two languages, haggle a salesman down to the lowest price, and make her opinion known. I always loved her for her style of parenting, for letting me, as a kid, know that my own actions, and the decisions I made, were of consequence. I never felt like she was controlling what I did, but saying, "Do what you will, but life is all about living with the choices you make. The ball is in your court." I loved her for this. And, really, I liked her so much. I don't just mean love. Every kid loves their mother, in some way, I suppose. I liked her. She was fun to be with. We made each other laugh. She enjoyed motherhood, and she enjoyed developing real friendship with her children. When I was a kid, she loved to play with me. When I became a young woman, she loved to get up early on Sunday morning and drink coffee with me, before anyone else was awake. Years later, when I was living half a world away, she loved talking on the phone with me, and exchanging care packages by mail. And she never did anything small or half-assed. A perfect example:

During one of our long phone conversations, I mentioned how much I missed American peanut butter. The peanut butter in New Zealand, I explained, just didn't taste right. I'd kill for just a slice of bread with Jif. A week later, a large box was left on my doorstep by the mail man. Instead of having a meter stamp, the box was covered in $1 postage stamps. Front, back, top, bottom...the box was covered in postage stamps. I laughed, cut open the box and found inside two one-gallon jars of Jif peanut butter. Industrial-sized. Enough to keep me in peanut butter for well over a year. I immediately phoned her, and we shared a laugh over the madness of the just over 100 stamps she'd stuck on the box, on a whim, because she thought it would be funny,  and the massive jars of peanut butter. It was so typical of her, to do something in such a big way. Largesse applied to every aspect of her life. She wasn't just generous, she also loomed large. Her laugh was big. Her voice was big. Her personality was huge. When she entered a room, she filled it up. To me, she was a giant. The single most important person in my life - then, now, forever. 

The irony lies in that my mother was all of 4' 11" tall. People who knew her find this difficult to believe. Even people who knew her for years -people who worked along side her - can't believe this is true. A giant in so many ways yet, physically, so very small. Short enough that her feet never touched the ground on a NYC bus. Being a superhero has nothing to do with height.

When I found this little lunchbox, the phrase "tiny, but mighty" popped into my head, and I knew this was meant to be.