Zap. That is what my T-shirt says. The message is over a half-century old, and it was a gift. It was given to me by the girls in the ice cream factory in recognition of my status as a superhero, albeit a relatively unknown superhero named Zap.

The background requires some explanation. The day after I finished high school, I began work in a local ice cream factory. Ice cream being a seasonal product, the factory would hire a lot of university students in the summer to supplement the regular workforce and increase production to meet high summer demand. I worked at that factory for several summers, and it largely paid my way through university.

There were two main groups of workers in the factory—operators and girls. The “girls” ranged in age from later teens to middle sixties, while the operators were men (and male university students). Operators had to set up the machines and keep them running properly. They worked slightly longer hours than the girls and were paid better. The operators were responsible for maintaining production, keeping the machines running perfectly was often a technically difficult balancing act, and the operators were under a lot of stress. The girls had a much more straightforward and more boring job, bagging and packing the products at the end of the production line.

I should say that it was the 1970s, and women were just beginning to become operators. I had no problem with that. I even encouraged one of the university girls to apply to be an operator because I thought she would be good at it. She refused, preferring to remain in the less stressful company of the sisterhood.

Oh, yes, the T-shirt. I admit freely that, as an operator, I was a good university student. My field was English and History, not anything useful such as engineering. Unlike many of the full-time operators, I was not mechanically gifted. I managed to maintain good production on the machines, but I had to work very hard for it. It did not come naturally. As a result, I gained a reputation for being very intense on the job, focused on doing everything right and getting the work done.

The university girls who worked with me thought I had delusions of grandeur, presenting myself as a superhero. I don’t think they recognized how much I struggled. Hence, they gave me the T-shirt as a way of mocking my pretensions. I already had the other side of the superhero persona down pat—the nerdy alter ego similar to Clark Kent and Peter Parker. I was short, already balding, and not physically very imposing.

So, why have I kept that T-shirt for over half a century? There are two reasons. The first is that I am cheap. A free T-shirt is a free T-shirt. I am not wasting a free gift, no matter the motives behind it.

The other reason is that the T-shirt is a reminder to not take myself too seriously, to be humble and to be aware of my weaknesses. I do not regret focusing on doing good work in that factory. I still think that was important. But I also recognize that I should beware of the sin of self-importance. The poet Robert Burns wrote: “Oh, would some Power the gift give us to see ourselves as others see us! It would from many a blunder free us.” That T-shirt is a mirror in which I can see myself. It is indeed a superpower that has been given to me.

I kept that T-shirt in a drawer for many years, wearing it occasionally. A grandson borrowed it a few years ago and never gave it back. It has developed some holes, the Zap message is becoming unreadable, and it will eventually be discarded and forgotten. My grandson has no idea of the superpower hidden in that worn and faded T-shirt.