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You Can Become A Minor Hero…

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Every week we are bombarded with yet another new superhero, caped or masked, leotarded or graphite-enshrouded.

Movie and TV screens are filled to the brim with “superheroes”… imaginary beings that save the world… save civilization, save the universe.

Superheroes aren’t really my jam, aside from the quirky Deadpool, who is the weirdest, anti-hero hero. Anyone who makes me belly laugh is inducted into my hero club.

But I prefer to spend my mindspace real estate on real-life, often “minor” heroes.

Since Ukraine has been under attack, I find myself wholly intrigued and mesmerized by Volodymyr Zelensky, a totally unexpected, shockingly surprising hero. A real-life capeless hero.

I know from reading countless Facebook posts over the years that most of us are inspired and lifted by the day-to-day real-life heroes out there. We revere heroes.

The Huffington Posts posits that there are 6 kinds of real-life heroes…. maybe there are more, I don’t know.

  • The Warrior Hero.
  • The Protector Hero.
  • The Healer Hero.
  • The Master Hero.
  • The Leader Hero.
  • The Teacher Hero.

There’s a pretty good chance that you’re one of these. I hope so. You may not even realize it.

There’s a common thread running through these real-life heroes, it’s called…

INSPIRATION

They show us what we can attempt to be as humans and inspire us to become better versions of ourselves. Minor heroes.

My Walter Mitty inner-persona sees myself aspiring to become a saviour of the downtrodden, a visionary to those who need inspiration and hope.

It’s largely a mirage, but an aspiration nonetheless. It takes aspiration to make inspiration to take action.

Real heroes are the people who do little or large things, unexpected things, everyday things, that leave the world around them better or preserve lives.

The best heroes to me are often normal people who scarcely notice how extraordinary they are, often overlooking their contributions because they were never presented with an official cape by the mayor of Gotham City. Humility and heroism are twin virtues.

Becoming a hero is often not a choice, it’s thrust upon us and we must decide if we can or will surmount our personal worries and fears.

Volodymyr Zelensky is the latest, greatest example. There are countless others, in Ukraine and all around the globe, that we never hear about who are saving lives, or making lives better with what they do for little or no recognition.

Take that Vladimir!

Big wars make minor heroes into major heroes (and minor villains into major villains)… small people of all genders and ethnicities and belief systems that rise to the occasion.

Zelensky may – I hope – triumph in his unasked-for quest, or, he may perish and become a martyr, a chapter in a history book like Martin Luther King or Ghandi.

There are Ukrainian heroes, Afghan heroes, Syrian heroes, Jewish, Atheist, Baha’i, Muslim, and Christian heroes… even Russian heroes. Far off and right next-door heroes.

I chop vegetables and make sandwiches a few days a month alongside a longtime friend, a lady at the soup kitchen who birthed 5 kids, two with Cystic Fibrosis. Tough stuff, yes?

Today, retired and all her kids grown: one child has died, one has had a double-lung transplant, another has lupus and heart problems, her husband had a heart attack last year.

Can life get any more difficult for one person? Of course it can, but it’s the fact that she courageously shoulders this life without public complaint, with a cheery smile, and a desire to help others that makes her a hero in my view. A minor hero but a hero still.

Not everyone has to become a big hero. The world needs a major hero from time to time… a Churchill, a Mother Teresa, a Zelensky.

But even more, the world needs an army of minor heroes, or people making daily attempts to make the world a better place with unselfish acts.

And if you look inside yourself, there’s probably a hero buried there too.

I’ll never be a big hero, never a Zelensky, never a Churchill, Mother Teresa, Rosa Parks, Ghandi, or Dalai Lama… the kind of hero who forgoes all rational grasp-holds of safety. I’m merely “Yoda-trying” to find my inner minor hero.

I’ll leave you today with just a few ideas about how you can sew your own cape (maybe don’t squeeze into the leotard, OK?) and become a minor hero in your world…

  • Perform random acts of kindness. 
  • Shovelling your neighbour’s snowy driveway for them.
  • Helping to pay a student’s tuition.
  • Buying lunch for a depressed friend.
  • Buying groceries for someone in need.
  • Taking an elderly neighbour to an appointment.
  • Volunteer your time. 
  • Help build houses with Habitat for Humanity for low-income families.
  • Join a gleaner’s group.
  • Get involved with your neighbourhood clean-up committee or watch group.
  • You don’t always have to volunteer in an official way. You can offer to help a friend move or give up some time to listen when a family member is in need of emotional support.
  • Use small gestures. 
  • Even offering someone kind words can help you grow as a hero. Smile and say thank you to service workers.
  • Bring a friend a fresh flower.
  • Write your mail person a thank you note.
  • Offer your seat on the bus or subway to a pregnant woman, an elderly person, or someone with a cane or crutches.
  • Send a family member a surprise email or text telling them something they did in the past that made you feel good.
  • Promote the Good rather than Oppose the Bad 
  • Attend a “pro” rally instead of an anti-demonstration. Pro-peace, pro-immigrant, pro-BLM or pro-LGBTQ.
  • The most successful, heroic people focus on the positive. 
  • Volunteer Your Treasure
  • Donate a portion of your income (or blood) to help others – people, animals, projects in need.

How to Make Trump Soup

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I have nothing to put in my soup, you see,
Not a bone or a bean or a black-eyed pea,
So I’ll just climb in the pot to see
If I can make a soup out of me.
I’ll put in some pepper and salt and I’ll sit
In the bubbling water–I won’t scream a bit.
I’ll sing while I simmer, I’ll smile while I’m stewing,
I’ll taste myself often to see how I’m doing.
I’ll stir me around with this big wooden spoon
And serve myself up at a quarter to noon.
So bring out your soup bowls,
You gobblers and snackers.
Farewell–and I hope you enjoy me with crackers!

… with apologies to Shel Silverstein

Trump Soup.jpg

Donald Trump stood in line at the Penticton Soup Kitchen (Soupateria) one morning – I think it was Thursday – this week.

It’s true. I saw him with my own eyes.

Of course, I could be mildly confused but that’s a different story for another day.

It was a sunny (-less) day without a cloud in the sky, but no obvious sun either… a fog of forest-fire grey smoke still hung throughout the Okanagan Valley like damp laundry on the line in a “No Campfires Allowed” provincial campground …

But not only is there 50 Shades of Grey haze hanging out, but there’s also a ubiquitous orange-scoured miasma that’s been persistently hanging on and blanketing the entire planet since, well, I’d have to say mid-January.

Scan the news, pick up a paper, open your ears, the stinky cloud is everywhere.

The bouquet of excrement is strong.

Anyway, I saw him standing there in the lazy, disorganized line that was gradually forming by the glass-fronted doors of the soup kitchen. There were little pockets of quiet chatter amidst the shaggy group. One or two were talking to themselves.

The Donald caught my eye with a hostile gaze as I passed by, taking a few empty cardboard potato boxes to the recycling dumpster that sits like a quiet blue elephant nearby the front entrance.

donald t.jpg

Before I could turn away or pretend we hadn’t had a “moment”, he latched onto me and began bellowing through his rectal-pursed lips.

“Look… I’m coming into the kitchen and getting you guys organized.

It will be so simple. We’re gonna make a huge pot of my new recipe… Trump Soup.

It’s gonna be fantastic. Best ever. Everyone loves it and they haven’t even tried it yet.”

I tried to pull away and sneak in the back door but he was on me before I could close and bar the door.

There we both were, Trump vs Billy Bush-style, in the narrow back hallway, jammed between trays of day-old bread and boxes of freshly picked Sunrise apples.

Nervously, I melted away from his toxic breath. I felt afraid that he might grab me by the pussy (hmmmm, something doesn’t add up here!).

Fine!

In resignation, I lead him through the door into the main dining area set up with about 2 dozen long, blue-grey tables. Bread crumbs littered the beige vinyl floor where the sandwich makers had just finished their task.

We veered to the right and into the production kitchen. Delicious smells sifted quickly into my nose.

I reluctantly prepared to introduce him around the industrious, knife-wielding group of volunteers attired in purple and navy blue aprons.

Donald didn’t lose a step, brushing me aside with a shove of his arm, while totally ignoring all of the volunteer staff busily chopping carrots and onions.

He headed straight to the huge 35 L. soup cauldron simmering over a gas flame. A delicate vegetable broth scent rose up to meet his gaze, his interrogation of the soup.

Listening closely I heard him mumble under his breath… “Natural Gas stove, hmmmmpf… no jobs there… we’ll change it to coal.

A quick dismissive sniff and he decisively turned on his heels.

Then, raising both of his little hands and making zeros with his thumb and forefinger, he addressed the group.

People, this soup is terrible, it’s a disaster.” Sneer.

Five or six confused helpers raised their eyebrows, checking each other out for reactions.

“We are gonna repeal and replace this soup…

… this stuff is worse than the Holocaust… and one other thing!”. 

Ceiling fans spun furiously overhead to dispel the rising heat wave sweeping the stainless steel laden kitchen. Localized global warming?

He lifted an eyebrow and angrily spat: “It’s those fruit-picking “Kweebeckoys” Frenchy kids outside with their long braids and hippie clothes. They’ve gotta go back to where they came from. And the Mexicano guys too.”

quebecois kids.jpg

“Before we open the door for lunch, we’re gonna build a wall to keep them outta here. And dammit, they’ll pay for it to be built with the money they stole from OUR local farmers.”

“Let’s put the good folks in the lineup out there to work – the ones who were born right here and not in Kenya like that other wacko President – we’ll get them back to work so fast, it will be a beautiful beautiful thing.”

“Back to good-paying jobs in the orchards picking and packing. They’ll love us. I guarantee it.”

A glow of White Nationalist pride lit his chubby face – JOB accomplished – while pink-tinged embarrassed looks shrouded my and my co-volunteers’ faces.

“Ok everyone… I’m heading back to Air Force One… I’m leaving you to make this new Trump soup… lots of stinky garlic and onions, you decide, I don’t do details… doesn’t matter … what matters is that we repeal and replace that other soup.

“I don’t care how good it is or how much people have enjoyed it for years here. Doesn’t matter.”

“And you, over there…”

He pointed and glared at John, an elderly stooped gentleman born in Poland 80 years earlier.

Good John, who has diligently helped out in the kitchen twice each week since his retirement 17 years ago.

“I like you, but I don’t think you’re contributing enough. You’re fired.”

“Thank you for your service.”

“Let’s make this soup kitchen great again!… Look I have baseball caps with that emblazoned on them for you to wear.

Course, you’ll have to pay for them.”

……………….

Hands

Friends, we’re all in this soup pot together on this beautiful blue planet.

We can cry. We can stew. We can fester. And we can laugh.

But we can’t ignore forever.

History has already written that story.

………..

Hate begets hate; violence begets violence; toughness begets a greater toughness. We must meet the forces of hate with the power of love. (1958)

Martin Luther King

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

Martin Niemoller