I picture the sky as a black tablecloth, stars spilt across it like grains of salt. I start to join the dots, looking for patterns, but Keanu and Obama—like Achilles and Odysseus—are nowhere to be seen.

However bright they glow, heroes emit an approximate light. The wonder we have in them stands in for our wonder in each other. For me, at least, this is the lesson of the Mixed-Race Superman: we are too few or too many, but never singular.

As I look at the stars, I give myself up to power. Though I no longer seek any particular form or shape, faces begin to emerge one by one—some of which I love a great deal—each without expression and endlessly expressive.