If you had asked me on December 30th of last year if heroes still existed, I would have answered, “no,” with absolute certainty. My great-grandfather, my hero, died that day and left behind a family who sometimes still has no idea how the world kept moving as though nothing had happened.
My grandfather served our country during World War II as a Ham Radio Operator in the Army. He traveled with generals and commanders, often in the heart of battles where Morse code was crucial to the execution of battle plans. As a young child, the stories that he shared with me were exciting and sparked my imagination. I was a soldier in his barn, tapping out messages to my comrades -- saving us from death -- awaiting my hero’s welcome as I arrived home.
As often happens, the magic of those fantasies faded as I grew, and transformed into darker things -- things that, when no longer shielded by the innocence of youth, were harder to conceive and difficult to think about.
My grandfather told of the men he traveled with, fought beside, befriended – the men that he watched lose limbs and eyes and sanity, and sometimes lives. Many of those men were 18 years of age, a milestone I will achieve in just a few weeks. And I often find myself thinking, “How did they do it?” Like so many of my peers, what I perceive as hardship and unjustness is nothing in the face of what those extraordinary men did. They went from farms and high schools, baseball fields and graduation parties into the eye of a raging storm, and they went without question and without protest, out of duty to their country. However, they didn’t go without fear. Perhaps Dan Rather put it best: “Courage is being afraid, but going on anyhow.”
It is often the war veterans that we describe as heroes; this is not without reason. The greatest of these heroes, though, are not those who come home, promising to stay in touch with their fellow soldiers as they return to the society they fought so hard to protect, but rather those who come home in silence, a flag draped over their coffins left to speak for them. It has been two years now since my cousin returned home a memory, a hero, -- but ultimately -- a casualty.
Along his final journey home, he was given the welcome of a hero. The roads were lined with people, holding flags, hands over their hearts — a woman in her garden, eyes to the sky; a man in his wheelchair along a dirt road, waving his tattered flag; an entire school system lining the streets, a silent tribute, immortalizing their hero, and thanking him for his service; a man, perhaps 30 years of age, covering his face in grief as Matt’s hearse passed by. His death marked the second time that he had been wounded in battle. The first injury he sustained was received under fire, as he provided cover for his fellow soldiers. He received the Silver Star and Purple Heart for his heroic actions that day, but when recovering from that injury, all he spoke of was being able to return to his brothers in arms. One of the things that Matt said remains with me still: “I’m not a hero. The real heroes are the guys that don’t make it—those that are killed in action.” Two years later, he was one of them.
Are there heroes left then, you ask? And my mind wanders back to that December day and those that followed, and my heart recalls the hurt and the sorrow and the pain—those moments trying to be brave and not cry, trying to forget the boy playing war hero in his grandfather’s barn. On that day, in those moments, I would have said “no, the heroes are gone.”
However, since then, a new light has dawned within me: it wasn’t how they died that made them heroes. It wasn’t the flags on their coffins or the salutes at their graves; it was the way that they lived their lives.
Do the heroes of my youth exist? No; they never did. Those heroes were without flaw, without fear, and had bravery that knew no bounds. They were immortal.
So again, you ask, do heroes still exist today? Wholeheartedly, yes. They are the soldiers in uniform, serving our country; they are the mothers and fathers who sacrifice each day to provide a good life for their children; they are teachers, nurses, doctors, volunteers; they are brothers and sisters and strangers that offer hope with a small act of kindness and no expectation of anything in return.
Benjamin Disraeli once said, “The legacy of heroes is the memory of a great name and the inheritance of a great example.” I’ve been fortunate to know so many heroes and to recognize how many more exist around me. They’re not only heroes in quiet deed and action, but also in motivation—they are people who have inspired me to do my best in hopes that perhaps, someday, my grandchildren might play in a barn with one idea of heroism, and then as they age, grow to realize – just as I did -- that true heroes aren’t immortal—but their examples, and memories, certainly are.
