In this modern age we often speak of heroes, look for heroes, and label many people as heroes simply for their endurance and perseverance through difficult times. I believe that our society has become so starved for true heroism, that we have lowered our standards a bit and begun labeling anyone who does the right thing as a hero. Our society’s obsession with heroes is evident by our popular entertainment on television. Many shows feature medical heroes, heroes lost on an island, or even super-heroes in a show titled “Heroes”. The word “hero” seems to linger on the tips of many tongues just waiting to be spewed forth at the first acknowledgement of do-good-ery. Myspace, the social scourge of the internet even has a category on every member’s page where you are asked to list your heroes. There is a very popular massive multi-player online role playing game titled “City of Heroes” where every player gets to pretend to be a hero. After the horrible tragedies of 9/11 everyone in the military is labeled a hero. Every summer there are at least three blockbuster movies released featuring a super-hero straight from the pages of a comic book. A hero here; a hero there; EVERYWHERE there is a goddamn hero!
With this overwhelming influx of heroes in the world today, shouldn’t we be noticing a dramatic change? Why are bombs still devastating public markets? Why are unwanted babies still dying in dumpsters and alleyways? Why is global warming still looming with the threats of flooding and storms? Why is the cradle of civilization mired in the awful business of war? Why are people still dying of cancer? Shouldn’t some of our heroes have solved these problems by now? I ask these questions, not out of sarcasm, but because I honestly don’t know, and I want answers. I know that there are lots of good people in the world. People are donating to causes and hospitals. Young soldiers are giving their lives to try to create a lasting peace in the middle-east. Researchers and scientists are working on every problem from the ozone hole to curing the flu. Is being a good person, and doing the right thing enough to earn the badge of heroism though? I think not. I think “hero” needs to be a title reserved for those people who truly have an effect on our lives. “Hero” needs to be a personal title bestowed only to those few people who have truly rescued you from something. To illustrate my definition of a hero I want to share with you two of my heroes, men who have undoubtedly had a positive effect on my life, and whom I feel have indelibly marked my soul with a sense of honor and courage.
The first may seem very cliché, as he is my father. My dad is not my hero for teaching me to play sports, or for telling me that it was “ok” when I dropped out of college. My dad is not my hero for supporting me in all of my endeavors (which he has) or for helping me overcome some disability (the only disability he ever diagnosed me with was being lazy, and his cure for that was telling me to get off my lazy ass and do something with my life). My father is my hero for the simple fact that he literally saved my life on various occasions. When I use the word “literally” I am using it in accord with the Oxford English Dictionary, which means that my father really did rescue me from imminent peril, not just in a figurative or metaphorical sense.
When I was young my sense of adventure suppressed my concepts of reality, gravity, and general safety. The earliest time I can remember my dad saving my life is when I was less than 5 years old. My memories of this incident are vague, and mostly augmented by my parents’ retelling of the story, but I do clearly remember looking up through the sparkling blue as my lungs began to burn, and I do remember jumping back in. The story goes that my family was at a hotel on vacation, and we were down by the pool. I had been playing in the shallow end where I could wade in to chest-level and splash around without drowning. As my father was sitting poolside reading his book I decided that the deep end of the pool looked like more fun. I hopped out, walked over to the deep end of the pool, and hopped in. I did not have any idea of how to swim, so instead I decided to sink. I can remember realizing that I couldn’t breathe underwater and that my chest was starting to hurt. All of a sudden there was a huge splash above me, and I could see my dad kicking his way down to snatch me up and drag me to the surface. On the surface we both gasped for air, I choked a little bit, but I hadn’t swallowed or inhaled any water, so I was fine. My dad sat me on the edge of the pool, and then I hopped up and began walking to the shallow end to get back in. As an afterthought, I stopped halfway, turned around and came back to tell my father “Thanks for saving me dad. You’re my hero.” My dad was still in the pool, with all of his clothes on, including socks and shoes, resting with his elbows on the ledge.
The next time my dad saved me, we were skiing in Austria. I was a couple years older, but still what my dad would refer to as “a little shaver”. The chairlifts at the time possessed very little in the way of safety mechanisms, and often accelerated at tremendous speed once the skiers were seated. Unfortunately for me the chairs were typically a little too high so I would have to hop at just the right time to get properly seated. This time I didn’t quite make it. It was all something of a blur, as it happened so fast, but I will do my best to retell this story as accurately as possible. My dad was in line next to me to ride the chair up with me, and my mother was behind us. As our turn came and we prepared to hop on to the chair, I jumped just a little too soon, so that, as the chair took off into the air, I was only half on it and quickly sliding off. Luckily I grabbed the foot peg (where you would normally rest your ski-bound feet), which gave my dad the split second he needed to reach down and grab my other arm. At this point my mom had been screaming at the chairlift operator so loudly and with such colorful language that he had managed to awaken from his drunken stupor and stop the lift. By now though, we were at least 80 feet in the air and the stop only served to shake the chair back and forth, as you would shake your hand if you noticed an ant crawling on it. So there I was, a tiny ant hanging onto my father’s hand as the chair swung back and forth. With his help I managed to climb back into the chair, and the operator put it back into gear and sent us on our way up the mountain. After catching my breath for a minute I turned to my dad and said “Thanks dad. You’re my hero”. He said “You’re welcome son.”
All the great things my father has done for me define him as a great father. The way he treats my mother defines him as a good husband. His career in the army, the sacrifices he made there and the people he helped, defined him as a good soldier. The children he has taught, and helped over the past years have defined him as a good teacher, a good citizen, and a good person. Only the fact that he has saved my life, and made definite positive changes in my life defines him as a hero though, because that is what heroes do. They change your fate.
My other hero has also influenced my life in a very profound manner. He has never saved me from impending doom, but, the lessons he has taught me and the behaviors he has inspired me to pursue have changed the course of my life. He, like anyone worth writing about, is a good person on many levels, and the many facets and dimensions of his personality all add shine and interest to his character. His humor, love, and fatherly instincts draw those who know him close, and those who are lucky enough to be part of his family closer still. I cannot speak for others, but, his wit, the way he intently watches the Discovery Channel, and his hunger for learning draws me in and makes me want to listen, watch, and learn. His pride in the accomplishments of his son and daughter and his gratitude and love for his caring wife inspire me, as I hope that one day I will have such a family to care for me and the humility to truly appreciate that love, as he does. His determination against the worst odds, his strength even in moments of weakness, his steadfast stance and fist shaking in the face of Night, seem to cause all that visit him to swell with hope, and love, and pride for even knowing such a man. I know this man, and I am proud to say it. He is my father’s brother, my Uncle Frank. He is a hero of mine, so please allow me to tell you a story of him.
I remember a late summer afternoon when I had been playing with my two younger cousins (Frank’s daughter and son). As we were walking home we came to the street where our paths diverged, they lived a block down one direction while I lived a block in the opposite direction. After we said goodbye, and started walking our separate ways I was stopped by two older brothers who were well known as neighborhood bullies. My cousins saw this and fled home to get Frank. I was so preoccupied with avoiding any confrontation with these guys that I hadn’t realized that my cousins were still within eyesight, nor that they had run to get help. The brothers, as it turns out, were not interested in causing trouble that day, and after a very short and awkward conversation we parted ways. I had always told myself that I could put one of them in the hospital, but fighting both of them together was just asking to get stabbed in the back (again, you must realize that my imagination still eclipsed my sense of reality at this point of my life). After going in the house and grabbing a snack, I went outside and began pushing my bike to the end of the driveway to go to another friend’s house. Just as I came to the end of the driveway I thought I heard girls crying and sobbing. I looked around to find my Uncle Frank with the two brothers in tow. I should clarify that “in tow” actually means that my uncle Frank had these two teenage punks hoisted by their collars, one in each hand. As he walked up to me I could see the rage in his face and the fear in theirs. The toes of their shoes were barely scratching the ground, their cheeks were streaked with tears, and between sobs their voices cracked with a mixture of fear, pleading, and remorse. Apparently my uncle had been told that they had started to beat me up when my cousins had left. As he stood there asking if they were the two that were causing trouble, I wished to myself that they had started a fight with me, or that they had knocked me down, or that even one of them had said something rude to me. But none of that had happened. So my uncle let them go. Though they didn’t receive that day the punishment that they surely deserved, they never bothered me again, nor my cousins, nor anyone who even said that they knew me. The deed of that day defined my uncle as a protector in my mind, as a man who can and will do what he needs to make sure that the people he loves are taken care of.
My uncle’s heroism is a badge earned through a separate set of deeds though. It is something paid for with heartache, but which now glimmers with the polish of love, solace, and the brightness that everyday from now on will bring.
Several years ago my father and uncle had a falling out. The reason is no longer important. Only the moral remains. Too much time was lost, and yet it is never too late to reclaim family and mend old wounds. It takes strength to forgive and humility to ask forgiveness. From this healing I have learned the importance of family and time spent with them. I have learned the importance of apologizing and forgiving at the same time, in the same sentence, with the same hug, or nod of the head. I have learned the importance of letting the past go so that we can make the most of what precious time we have left.
A while back my uncle was diagnosed with esophageal cancer. It has been a long and arduous struggle, through which my family has come together for support and strength. We have all donned our armor and our helms, and stood together, determined not to let this thieving monster steal one of our family’s heroes. I wonder, though, if anyone else’s helm covers eyes swelling with tears, or a mouth full of gritted teeth, determined not to let the Fates take their bounty. I know my uncle is a hero to more than just me. I know that his effect on my life, as awesome as it seems to me, is nothing compared to the influence and heroism his own family has received. So I know that I feel only a fraction of the turmoil that they endure. In this definition of heroism I can only offer a morsel of what they already know. As I said before, heroism is not defined by the tragedies that befall us, nor by our endurance or perseverance. Heroism, to me, is defined alone by the changes you affect in the lives of others. Therefore this chimera named cancer cannot touch the man we all love so much. Even now my uncle inspires me to live a healthier life, and so alters my fate. Even now, he is a hero because he is loved and he teaches the loved ones who visit him to cherish the time spent together. Even the quiet moments around breakfast have a certain magic. He teaches us not to let the shadow of the inevitable, tarnish the time we have. In doing this he inspires all of us to get the most from life, to live healthier, and to fear nothing, which changes our fates as drastically as a flood can change a river’s course. His flood of enlightenment, and strength has changed the course of my life’s river, and for that he is my hero, and I am thankful.
Every culture in history that has a word for “hero”, defines it with courage in the face of the unknown, and with a strong sense of family honor. My uncle and my father possess both of these traits. As this is my family, which I have known all my life, I often take it for granted. When I stop to reflect though, I am both honored and humbled to be part of such a noble family. I can only hope that some of the magic that makes them heroic rubs off on me, so that one day I might be someone’s hero. If that is now my fate, to be a hero, I know it is something I was given by these two. Again, that is what heroes do. They change your fate for the better.
~Post Text~
As Frank has now set sail on his journey to brighter shores, I find the smallest part of my heart smiling, and teaching the rest of my heart to do the same. I am sad, and I am happy. I am sad mostly for selfish reasons. I want to hear one more story, tell one more joke, watch one more movie, light one more bottle rocket with him. I am happy because I know that Frank’s suffering has ended, but also because I know that the next life has been saving a special role just for him. I do not know what happens after this life. If there is a heaven, then I imagine Frank is driving his boat through the clouds and keeping busy crabbing and fishing and playing his guitar as he watches us down here. If the life after this one involves reincarnation, then I know that Frank is beginning again as an infant who will know unconditional love, and whose karma from this lifetime will provide him with many blessings in the next. If we are reincarnated then I must also declare another truth, which I believe with all my heart. Love like this, that we have all shared with Frank and each other, is unending, and will lead us to find each other in the next life.
No matter what lies beyond, I know this: Frank is safe and happy wherever he is, because his soul is wrapped in the love and good wishes of his family and friends. I am happy, because I know that when our times come, Frank will be waiting on that distant shore, to signal us home with bottle rockets, to celebrate our arrival with a barbeque, and to show us once more that he is still the kindhearted and humorous hero whom we all love so much.
