A Rendezvous with Sneakers

I don’t think I’ve ever actually looked up the definition of “hero,” but the anniversary of 9/11 spurred me to look it up.When you look in the dictionary, there are numerous meanings to the word. Below are two of the definitions from the Merriam-Webster dictionary that struck me when I read them:

‘A man admired for his achievements and noble qualities

One that shows great courage’

Who is that exactly?

The hero is the man, or woman, who defended his country and never received recognition for his efforts in combat. He is the person who’s lived through cancer– is the abused wife who lives in fear of the next fight, but stands strong  in front of her children. A hero is a firman, who lost his life saving strangers he never knew–he is the neighbor who stops traffic so an elderly woman could cross the street.

A hero is a husband, fighting for every last breath of his dying wife in the hospital, or mother laying her three-month old child to rest.

He’s a teacher, a comrade, a friend, a family member. He rescued a little girl’s cat from a tree when no one else could. He is not the president, although he might have been. She’s the person who defied racial barriers and sat where she was not meant to sit. She is the person fighting inner demons to starve herself. A hero may not have climbed the highest mountain peak or run the fastest marathon– perhaps he started a race and could not finish. But he sure as hell tried his hardest, and for that he’s a hero.

Those are just a few of the people who I consider heroes.

Who are yours?

Nothing.

If you have met me in real life, you may have noticed I’m not the loudest person (immediate family members beg to disagree, mainly siblings). I’ve been told, by more people, that I’m “painfully quiet.” I can go hours with someone and not say anything–it drives people crazy. I’ve found myself apologizing for my silence. It seems like I’m not listening, and I can see how that might appear on the outside. But, I am listening, and fully engaged in the “conversation.”

I don’t intend to be a “brick wall” when you talk to me. My silence is not a sign that I’m uninterested in what you say. I’m simply absorbing your words and actions–watching how you gaze to your side when you are uncomfortable or struggle to express a thought (minus poker players–they are pretty crafty and masking what they are thinking or planning).

I think a factor in my is my own inability to precisely say what I’m trying to say. Ask me what I’m thinking, and I might not be able to express it orally; but hand me a pen and paper, and I’ll write you a novel.