I have a little bit of explaining to do. Context. My name is Daniel Hero. Really. I’ve had this name since I was 6. I wasn’t born a Hero, I was made one, as I used to say as a kid. I got into a lot of fights as a kid.
My first name has undergone all the permutations through the stages of my life – in chronological order, Danny, Dan, and now Daniel – but the last name overshadows. My entire life has been shaped by it. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m well aware there are worse things than this. I once knew a guy named Orefice. Pronounced Or – uh – FEE – see.
Let me give you an example. When you’re nine years old in 1975, small, skinny, wear glasses – in the army my particular style of frames were affectionately known as RPG’s, a charming TLR (three letter acronym) that I’m not going to explain – go nowhere without your nose in a paperback or comic book, prefer a sesquipedalian approach to conversation, and have the last name Hero? You can’t make this stuff up.
I got into a lot of fights as a kid.
And hated every one of them. Most of the time I’d just run. I was a much better runner before I became a better fighter. But far before you get tired of running, you’re forced to fight. Sometimes you can’t run away. That’s just life. Needless to say, I have a particular and abiding hatred for bullies.
Let me give you another example. I mentioned the army and yes I am a veteran. It’s not something I bring up unless it’s relevant. Most of the time it isn’t. I was very young when I enlisted and it was a long time ago. Reagan was my commander in chief. I remember seeing his picture hanging on the wall quite vividly, that wrinkled old bastard. I wore a uniform with a patch that read U.S. ARMY on one side and on the other side a patch that read HERO.
In Germany, before the wall fell. Again, you can’t make this stuff up. I caught a lot of shit, more so because I was in the infantry, because of that name. Basic training. Hero was what they called all of the new recruits. Imagine the fun.
There are many other examples both fine and gross yet I’ve come to embrace my name in the only way that makes me feel alright about walking around with it. Which means I don’t think it makes me special. I had no more choice about this name than any child had about theirs. I’ve avoided trying to profit from it. Could you imagine if Donald Trump had my last name? Maybe he should have. Maybe he could have profited from learning that sometimes you can’t run away.
But Donald Trump is not Rome. Not all roads lead to him. He does have that Nero quality about him though. All I’m saying is, I can totally picture him in a toga.
So as someone with the last name of Hero, someone who has come to take that name, let’s say, personally, I can hardly not cast the most derision I can muster whenever I do happen to slip on Trump’s moist slime trail.
I’m not one of those people who say they hate all labels. I hate labels that are leashed to serve human generated evil and promote fear. I hate labels that are intentionally designed to obfuscate the truth. Labels are useful. We all carry around a host of labels, whether we want to or not.
Among other things, I have been and am: a reader, a student, a teacher, a soldier, a waiter, a cannabis user, a father, a husband (a few times), a son, a brother, a cicisbeo, a liar, a savior, a poet and a fool, a bear and a scholar. That last is for my online gaming friends.
And now, because of the circus of horrors that is the impending election of Donald Trump, I have to add another tag to the list. Crusader. He represents almost every bad quality I can think of in a human being. I’m not rushing to judgement though; I’m sure he’ll erase the “almost” sooner rather than later. That moving pile of human waste is utterly and completely absorbed with himself in a way that makes me suspect he just might be the first human never to exit infant solipsism. Perhaps solipsism isn’t the right label. That would require an acknowledgement of the outside world which I think is beyond him.
I was once asked if I could picture heaven, something I could see myself doing with pleasure forever. I thought about this for a long time and I finally came up with an answer. I think eternity could be somewhat bearable if you could ensure endless beginnings, which isn’t to say there would be no endings. You’d have to have those. Think of the juggling act it would require if there wasn’t.
No, endings and beginnings validate each other. Give each other meaning. For me, heaven would be like a library whose shelves extended infinitely – each tome within it’s own experience, no two the same, yet each universal. As you read each one, you grow and change. Endless beginnings.
If you choose to see endings as a kind of payoff like in a story or a piece of poetry, than beginnings become even more important. Critical, even.
Which is why I’m tiptoeing around all this.
So first of all, manners. I’m a firm believer in them.
Those of you who may be here because of my recent excoriation of a certain portion of the electorate on Facebook may be shocked to hear me say this, but it’s true. Especially in public.
I’m the guy who holds the door open for you. I’m the guy who is hyper aware of where I’m standing with my cart when I’m grocery shopping. If I block your view, I’ll look you in the eye and say pardon me. I let people in front of me in traffic. I’m also a terrible terrible human being. In private. To myself. In dark flights of fantasy that everyone has but only the disturbed act upon. Out in public, face to face, I am a gentle person who keeps more or less to himself. I am slow to anger and easy to appease. I would much rather laugh with you than fight with you. As much as possible I avoid conflict and provocation.
Never, however, mistake my politeness for weakness. What I say here is public but control over it is not. I reserve the right to be rude. Brutally rude. I see rudeness as the blunt instrument one uses short of an actual blunt instrument. Best used sparingly if at all.
But this isn’t to say I’m unaware of the responsibility attendant to speaking my mind. Whatever I scrawl on these digital walls is for everyone to see. I’m not trying to hide my identity so this means I’m accountable for everything I say. I own it.
Perhaps because I try to be unfailingly polite in public I come across a bit strong in print. Good. Also, I like quotes. This one from Christopher Hitchens fits:
My own opinion is enough for me, and I claim the right to have it defended against any consensus, any majority, anywhere, any place, any time. And anyone who disagrees with this can pick a number, get in line and kiss my ass.
“Be It Resolved: Freedom of Speech Includes the Freedom to Hate,” debate at University of Toronto, (2006-11-15).
Now that is out of the way: Welcome! Sincerely. If you like the table I set, it will thrill me beyond measure. To you, good reader, I make this vow: I will tell you the truth as best as I can discern it. I’ve come to think there isn’t a better beginning point for anything (especially morality) than a respect for the truth.
That is, of course, much easier said than accomplished. It is in fact, the very essence of… oops, sorry. We’re still getting to know each other and I don’t want to scare you off before I’ve even finished introducing myself.
Eternal beginnings. It’s a daunting prospect. Which makes starting this pack of paragraphs seem much less so in comparison. I have a sketchy vision of what I’ll be doing here – it will be part cave drawing, part message in a bottle, and part sacrificial altar. It will also be a mirror, a workbench, and a therapy couch.
You’re welcome to pull up a chair and watch the movie, shrug and leave, or just stick your head in from time to time. I’m easy.
A long lost love once asked me what it was like to write for an audience. I told her it was like swimming out to sea at night from a tropical beach into warm lapping waves lit by a low full moon. Against the vault of the sky, a dusting of stars exquisitely placed because you put them there yourself.
I also told her you can never fully enjoy it. Why’s that? She asked. Because, I said, the whole time you’ve been in the water one of your veins was mingling with the sea….
And something just brushed your foot.
Oh and because I promised to be honest with you: I also write bad poetry. Might as well be upfront about that from the beginning.
This is going to be fun.
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