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.
Viva la resistance.
