I recently realized where my aversion to fake sentimentality originated. In 1989, I worked for a very large, very powerful organization that specializes in cancer (you’ve all heard of it). The two women I worked for, neither of whom were known for independent thinking, decided that the theme of one of the quarterly board meetings would be this: Be a Hero. There were postcards, and flyers, and there was even a theme song those of us staffing this meeting were asked to lead. The song, of course, was to follow the speech delivered by a guy who had been to the Olympics but hadn’t clenched the gold medal because he was so distracted by his sister back home in Wisconsin, who was dying of cancer. As I recall, he’d been so affected by the experience he’d written a book about it, and even though the country had not yet fallen under the spell of Oprah, I believe he’d been on a national talk show. “I’ll bet people will cry,” said the older, fatter and more authoritative of my two bosses. Her normally deadened eyes twinkled hopefully.
I have to applaud that woman for being way ahead of her time. Cast clearly into the role of hero, the past-his-prime jock stood up and spewed forth every cliché imaginable about the death of his sister and his quest for the gold. The dough-faced housewives from the suburbs of Milwaukee reached, as if by divine command, for their tissues. Even the hero paused a few times, dramatically, and with great difficulty, as if he too were on the verge of tears. Then we all broke into song and celebrated the democratization of heroism. Because that day, in the crusade against cancer, we were all heroes.
Well, here we are 20 years later. We’ve had lots of wars, shootouts, explosions, terrorist attacks, climate conferences, earthquakes, emergency landings and burning buildings. There has been no shortage of opportunities to save the day. Not long after singing about heroes, I got fired from my job (I totally deserved it, but the ratio by which I deserved it to how wrong it was for the fat cancer prevention expert who fired me to be hired in the first place is about one to 40). I actually respect the fact that she saw the train to maudlin long before it became a part of daily life, and managed to hoist her heft on board and ride it for all it was worth. At the same time, I resent her and her ilk for word hijacking. Heroes my ass.
So to end this year, I am making a point of replacing the word hero with another word, one that, for me, is much more meaningful: decent.
And the most decent thing I witnessed this year was on a Friday evening in early November. I was on my way to church, believe it or not, to meet an old friend whose husband is part of a touring Christian musical ensemble. Shortly after the bus crossed the river to the east side of Portland, an older woman who was sitting near the front stood to exit, holding one bag while using her free arm to reach for a second, which sat on the seat. Though heavily scarved, she appeared frail. A guy who I’d guess was in his early thirties stood up at the same time. He wore a black leather jacket and a dark knit cap pulled down to his eyebrows. He was sexy, I thought, in a risky sort of way. He would not have appeared out of place in a lineup of suspects. He offered to help the woman. She refused. He insisted. She asked where he lived. He said it didn’t matter. She said that even though she’d lived in Portland her entire life, she’d never heard of It Doesn’t Matter Street. He lifted the bag off the seat and she told him, loudly enough for all to hear, that she’d been getting her own groceries home since long before he was born. He said he didn’t doubt it and together they took very short steps toward the front exit. The old woman stepped off first, and as she was doing so the bus driver tore a transfer from the metal stand beside the steering wheel and offered it to the guy, who said thanks, but no: there was plenty of time to catch the next bus, he said, because his ticket was good until 8:30 and it was, at the time he and the old lady left the bus, only a few minutes before 7:00.
I have to applaud that woman for being way ahead of her time. Cast clearly into the role of hero, the past-his-prime jock stood up and spewed forth every cliché imaginable about the death of his sister and his quest for the gold. The dough-faced housewives from the suburbs of Milwaukee reached, as if by divine command, for their tissues. Even the hero paused a few times, dramatically, and with great difficulty, as if he too were on the verge of tears. Then we all broke into song and celebrated the democratization of heroism. Because that day, in the crusade against cancer, we were all heroes.
Well, here we are 20 years later. We’ve had lots of wars, shootouts, explosions, terrorist attacks, climate conferences, earthquakes, emergency landings and burning buildings. There has been no shortage of opportunities to save the day. Not long after singing about heroes, I got fired from my job (I totally deserved it, but the ratio by which I deserved it to how wrong it was for the fat cancer prevention expert who fired me to be hired in the first place is about one to 40). I actually respect the fact that she saw the train to maudlin long before it became a part of daily life, and managed to hoist her heft on board and ride it for all it was worth. At the same time, I resent her and her ilk for word hijacking. Heroes my ass.
So to end this year, I am making a point of replacing the word hero with another word, one that, for me, is much more meaningful: decent.
And the most decent thing I witnessed this year was on a Friday evening in early November. I was on my way to church, believe it or not, to meet an old friend whose husband is part of a touring Christian musical ensemble. Shortly after the bus crossed the river to the east side of Portland, an older woman who was sitting near the front stood to exit, holding one bag while using her free arm to reach for a second, which sat on the seat. Though heavily scarved, she appeared frail. A guy who I’d guess was in his early thirties stood up at the same time. He wore a black leather jacket and a dark knit cap pulled down to his eyebrows. He was sexy, I thought, in a risky sort of way. He would not have appeared out of place in a lineup of suspects. He offered to help the woman. She refused. He insisted. She asked where he lived. He said it didn’t matter. She said that even though she’d lived in Portland her entire life, she’d never heard of It Doesn’t Matter Street. He lifted the bag off the seat and she told him, loudly enough for all to hear, that she’d been getting her own groceries home since long before he was born. He said he didn’t doubt it and together they took very short steps toward the front exit. The old woman stepped off first, and as she was doing so the bus driver tore a transfer from the metal stand beside the steering wheel and offered it to the guy, who said thanks, but no: there was plenty of time to catch the next bus, he said, because his ticket was good until 8:30 and it was, at the time he and the old lady left the bus, only a few minutes before 7:00.
