From Krypton to Kansas: The Refugee Who Became America’s Hero

 If you’ve been online lately, you might’ve seen the complaints. Superman, some say, has gone “woke.” They’re upset that the newest version of the Man of Steel is being described as an immigrant, a refugee, an outsider trying to find his place. But here’s the thing: that’s not a new spin. It’s not a modern rewrite. It’s the oldest part of the story. It’s where Superman comes from—literally and symbolically.

To understand how we got here, you have to go back. Not to Krypton—but to Cleveland, 1938.

Two young men—Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster—sons of Jewish immigrants, created Superman during a time when the world was teetering. Europe was slipping toward fascism. In America, antisemitism was rising. Immigration was tightly controlled. Refugees fleeing Hitler’s regime were being turned away at U.S. ports. The “other,” the outsider, was feared, vilified, shut out.

And into that came Kal-El.

An alien, cast off from a dying world, sent by his parents to survive among strangers. Raised in Kansas, yes—but never truly from here. Always of Earth but not from it. A perfect metaphor for the immigrant child. Someone who tries to fit in, who adopts the culture, who contributes—quietly, humbly—until the world needs saving. Then he stands up.

The early Superman didn’t fight supervillains. He fought slumlords. Crooked politicians. Wife beaters. He was a champion of the oppressed, the tagline said. And that wasn’t just marketing—it was a mission. Created by boys whose parents had fled pogroms and persecution, Superman was a fantasy of strength, of dignity, of justice—for those who had been told they didn’t belong.

Fast forward. The Cold War. The Space Race. Superman becomes a symbol of American might. The outsider is domesticated. Clark Kent becomes the focus. The cape stays, but the metaphor fades. We forget he’s not from here.

But history has a way of circling back.

In the 21st century, debates over immigration reignite. Refugees cross borders. Walls are proposed. Fear of the outsider surges again. And storytellers—like James Gunn—return to Superman’s roots. Not to change him. But to remember him.

And suddenly, some people recoil. They call it “woke.” As if being compassionate toward refugees is a radical new idea. As if acknowledging Superman’s outsider status is an insult, not the point.

But of course, it’s always been the point.

Superman is not a symbol of national purity. He’s the dream of belonging. Of contributing. Of being accepted not despite your differences—but because of what they offer. That’s why he works. That’s why he matters.

And if that makes him “woke,” then he’s been that way since 1938.

So the irony is this: the people shouting about how this isn’t their Superman? They’re right. Because he was never theirs alone. He belonged to the kids who dreamed him up. To the families who fled war and built new lives. To anyone who ever felt like they came from a different planet.

Superman was always an immigrant. It’s just that now, we’re remembering it.

And maybe, that’s the real power behind the cape.