Texas Heroes

In the wake of September 11, there were many discussions around our house about what made a hero. Were you a hero because you lost your life in the line of duty? Were you a hero because you risked your life as part of your job? Were you a hero because you did your job?

We never resolved the issue. That happens around our house sometimes. We disagree but manage to survive the experience. We find that the issue is more complex than we fully understand. We have something else to discuss and don't get around to solving whatever burning issue held our attention for the while of an interesting discussion.

I'm not sure where we left this one, but it's been something that I was thinking about long before that horrible day. I continue to think about it.

I was uncomfortable with the degree of adulation and hero worship directed toward firemen and police at the time of attack on the World Trade Center. It wasn't because I begrudged recognition for any of those who lost their lives or those who continued to work under dangerous conditions in the aftermath of the attack. I have a high respect for the men and women who serve us in our police and fire departments. Some of them are beloved relatives.

My discomfort came because this had, in fact, been a longstanding issue for me, and I couldn't help but think that there are many among us who are heroes, who serve us, who save us, who do wonderful things--all without recognition by the community. I think doctors and nurses are heroes. I think teachers are heroes. I think (some) lawyers are heroes. And the list could go on.

Let me put this in some personal perspective. My father was a hero by anyone's definition. He served in the Army in World War II. When MacArthur said, "I shall return," Daddy was part of the return to the Phillipines. He won a Bronze Star for his heroism. He turned down two Purple Hearts. Daddy came back from the war, suffering from malaria, severely malnourished. That meant that he was really serious when he said, "If I ever get out of this foxhole alive, I'm going to eat steak every day for the rest of my life." It also meant that for many years, the one thing you did not want to do was try to sneak into a room where Daddy was sleeping to try to get the book you left behind. Until he became too hard of hearing to know that you were there, those combat reflexes stayed sharp. (Those reflexes came in handy when the next door neighbor's daughter needed rescuing from the stalking ex-husband.) And, yet, I think of my father's heroism in other terms. He was generous to a fault. I don't know that he ever gave anyone the shirt off his back, but I do know that he gave money and time and assistance wherever it was needed. He took care of family, friends, and total strangers. He had only one child, but he was a father-figure for many. He was honest and fair. He lived a life of goodness, centered on the needs of others. And he had a wicked sense of humor. Many things made Daddy pretty special in one way or another, but I think his real heroism came because he married Mama.

So now you need to know why I think Mama is a hero (setting aside the fact that she is my mother and does drive me crazy now and then). Mama was the victim of either (a) medical malpractice or (b) the crappy medical standards of the Depression. The end result left her handicapped. It wasn't just a snap of the fingers situation, where one day she's riding horses and the next day her body is twisted so that she walks with a serious limp. There were surgeries. Almost all of them happened during World War II when things like anesthetic were in short supply. There were crutches and wheel chairs and, for a while, that horrible "built-up shoe" that was supposed to help her walk normally but didn't. Later on, there were more surgeries, happily with ample supplies of anesthetics and antibiotics. These surgeries had nothing to do with her handicap directly but were the "collateral damage" of what she had gone through. Years of pain. Years of sickness. And all the while, even during World War II, she was teaching school. She taught for 30 years. She was a Master Teacher. She was responsible for some rather fine education for more than 1000 elementary students in this state. And she did it long before the Americans with Disabilities Act was passed. That meant that, if she dared to ask for any accommodation--like a classroom on the first floor rather than the second because it freakin' hurt to climb stairs--there was always some busybody around to ask why she got special treatment. Mama did whatever she could never to ask for accommodation of any sort unless she just had to, and she hid her deep insecurities about how twisted her body was--and her fear of rejection and hurt--by dressing better and acting happier than anyone around her. If she hadn't been handicapped and just did her job as well as she did do, I'd still have to think of her as a hero. She genuinely loved her students. They all thought she was tough, but they loved her back. (One of her best friends these days is a student from that first class of fifth graders that she taught during the war.) More than once, there was a trip to the shoe store to help out one student or another. She spent hours preparing extra learning tools for her classes, recording tapes to help slow readers follow along with the text, finding books and games that would make classes interesting and valuable to her students. All at a teacher's pay. In pain. Dragging half her body along the way. With laughter.

What it took for Daddy to help her do this even I did not know until he passed away. I know that she is frailer these days and needs more assistance for everything, but he was literally her other leg for the 52 years they had together. And he was just as involved in helping her make her classroom work for her handicap as the ADA might have been at a later time. I think his heroism has to include the foreknowledge that he was going to give a great deal of his life to making her life better.

Well, I do run on, and that's only two heroes. I have a longer list. These two are my favorites, I guess. (Must be that liberal bias showing, or something.) ;) But I think there are heroes among us who never make it to the nightly TV news. I think there are heroes whose deeds affect just a few people, whose sacrifices and services may seem small at first glance, but who make the world--or at least part of it--a better place. Everyday heroes. Unsung heroes. Folks we miss because we think that heroism has to involve pyrotechnics or a ball of some kind.

I suspect I'll have more to say about this later, but I have to go pack the car to go see one of my heroes and put a flag on the grave of another. Memorial Day is coming.