Everyday Canvas

Heroes and 9/11

Prompt: “A grower of turnips or a shaper of clay, a Commot farmer or a king--every man is a hero if he strives more for others than for himself alone.” Lloyd Alexander, The High King
Whether you agree or not with the above quote, which character traits make a hero of any person in your opinion?

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I definitely agree with the prompt for the “strives for others (more) than himself alone” part, and there are many ways for someone to be considered a hero. An example to heroism--as today is the fourteenth anniversary of that tragedy--is the large group of firefighters who entered the burning towers on 9/11/2001 to help get the people out, possibly knowing that the buildings could collapse. No only those who went in but those who cleaned up the rubble after the tragedy are also heroes.

As such, I don’t think being a hero is limited to firefighters or any one profession, as much as I applaud all firefighters and people who voluntarily go into dangerous vocations. According to Joseph Campbell, the hero “has a thousand faces”; therefore, to narrow the heroism down to specific traits or occupations would be minimizing what heroism is.

My idea of what makes a hero is:

A hero can be one person or a network of people, who turn a personal virtue into action.

This action can be fighting on behalf of others in need or for defending a moral cause or the integrity of a group or idea.

The action is done voluntarily without any expectation of material gain, and not because the action is the only one left for survival.

The heroic action involves a risk to the hero’s life, physical comfort or social stature.

A hero can be a person who can rise to the occasion immediately when faced with a life-changing event, be it in helping or saving others or getting them out of a bad situation. He stands up for what’s right and just.

A hero may not be someone with superhuman strength outside, but in the inside, he or she carries the power of empathy and does act on it.

Being a victim is not being a hero, but if a victim fights against victimization and against the evil that turned him into a victim, then he or she becomes a hero.


Here’s a poem in memory of 9/11 by Billy Collins.

The Names

Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,
I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,
Then Baxter and Calabro,
Davis and Eberling, names falling into place
As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.
In the morning, I walked out barefoot
Among thousands of flowers
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
And each one had a name –
Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal
Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.
Names written in the air
And stitched into the cloth of the day.
A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.
Monogram on a torn shirt,
I see you spelled out on storefront windows
And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.
I say syllables as I turn a corner –
Kelly and Lee,
Medina, Nardella, and O’Connor.
When I peer into the woods,
I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden
As in a puzzle concocted for children.
Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,
Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,
Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.
Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.
Names silent in stone
Or cried out behind a door.
Names blown over the earth and out to sea.
In the evening – weakening light, the last swallows.
A boy on a lake lifts his oars.
A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,
And the names are outlined on the rose clouds –
Vanacore and Wallace,
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.
Names etched on the head of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a
tunnel.
A blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in a green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the
heart.