Heroism -- Who owns it? Some thought provoking musings by a man who's not a soldier.

This post is in an attempt to rectify and put to rest some thoughts pertaining to somethings which I said in the past but did not publish except for in the notes tab on my Facebook page.  In reality I need to dedicate this entry to my wife.  The love of my life.  The girl with whom I share the EXACT SAME birthday, and with whom, I'm positive I can't stand to fight the battles of the warfare of my life without.  

I love you Kristina.  

 





It's not guilt that has driven me to write this, but actually something more like a continuation of my thoughts....Yeah, I still have them.   

So, here's the deal: 

Last fall, it seemed that for about a month or so, every time I turned around, I was hearing news about people I know, (close and distant to me) and their lives just crumbling.  I should say here that some of these folks, may have looked forward to the changes in their life.  Maybe it's just what they needed.  But as for what I know of them, and what I know just plain works in this mortal sojourn, their lives were crumbling.  These accounts of my acquaintances left me curious, discouraged and a little bit pridefully ponderous.  

Introspectively, I began to reflect as to why I've had such a 'good' life?  Why am I loyal (to a fault that robs me of my "me-time")?  During this time of reflection, I encountered something on Facebook, which, well, to say the least...Pissed me off.  Basically, it was a "status post"  which, in short, describe the "true heroes" of the world to be only the service men and women of the United States military.   There were some other absurdities in this public declaration of this persons admiration of "heroes".  But for the most part, I was bothered that automatically -- because I choose to wear Car-Hart jeans rather than Combat Boots to work each day -- there is no way for me to achieve "hero" status in this life.  How Stupid.  I decided to write about it, this is what came out............

I NEED A HERO

by Jeffrey Scott Hankins on Wednesday, October 27, 2010 at 9:31pm

Just so those of you who know me, who may read this understand, I am not watching the world series, nor doing much needed amounts of homework, all because I am so sick to my stomach about some recent news I just received pertaining to an acquaintance and his decisions, that I feel it has come time to express my opinion for the men of this nation to rise up and live better.  Damn it!  I don’t care who you are.  This nation cannot and will not be upheld by outward force (war and political persuasion), but from maintaining and upholding the internal value system from when it originated.  This value system, for those who choose to live it, is at the core of what is threatened by the adversary in the prophecy which was given of these last days that states:

“And all things shall be in a commotion; and surely, men’s hearts shall fail them; for fear shall come upon all people.”

This prophecy was given by Joseph Smith, Christmas day in 1832.  Whether you believe Mormonism or not, the warning and description of the hearts of man in the “last days” is still valid.  At a time when Joseph smith and the other leading men of the LDS church were pondering upon war and slavery and the calamities of the nation, then and in the future (so, our NOW), this revelation was given to benefit the average “saint” (man and woman alike) on the strength and virtue to which he/she was to conduct his/her life.  When I hear about people know, who choose to make decisions that force them to not live up to promises they’ve made, my heart breaks, and my stomach turns.   I find myself reflecting upon my own life and evaluating if I have been living worthy of all that I am blessed to have, and if I have not, what I need to do to correct it.  It’s times like this when I get aggravated by public comments about the meaning of what a true hero is.  With the world in shambles, what are we as humans looking for in a “HERO”.  A man in uniform, with a badge, on soil, fighting battles started by people who haven’t been able to settle them themselves for thousands of years?

To clarify, let me make it clear, that I honor the men and women who serve our country in combat and I am aware of the struggles and obstacles they face.  I have close friends who have done it, and I am posterity of men who have as well.  I take absolutely nothing away from what they do in life or what they have done.  However, I do not feel any greater admiration or respect for a man of warfare occupation than I do for the man who takes oaths of life, makes promises to others and wakes up every day, to face the evils of this world, to battle in hand to hand combat “those evil spirits that lie in wait to deceive the hearts of men”, and somehow manages to make it home at the end of the day.

That being said…

Before anybody takes it upon him or herself to define what a “true hero” of America is, I challenge anybody within the view of my words to evaluate his or her own strength of character.  To determine if he or she can; (through proof of his or her own life) justifiably discredit any act of valor by any mother, father, brother or sister; who, although they do not step foot on foreign soil to defend God, family, spiritual and ideal beliefs; still gives blood, sweat, tears, and (in albeit rare cases) LIFE to uphold freedom from spiritual and political oppression of evil forces of any kind.     

Because of these feelings which I have, I choose to public state that I feel like the majority of society today has a very obscure view of what a HERO is.  Take this for what is worth to you, comment if you like, or dislike for that matter.  But here is what I feel like should be posted in response to the classic status update of Facebook that usually goes something like this:

3% of all America will not repost this, while 97% of the 42.5% don’t care and 100% are going to hell because they didn’t vote for who I did, even though I only voted for so and so because my dad said to and I can’t think for myself…BLAH BLAH BLAH….you get my point….

I do not like this attitude.  I fear that it has fallen into a category that is inappropriate to meddle in.  That is, the declassification of one man’s human struggle compared to another man’s human struggle.

So before I make too many super patriotic people too upset, let me make my point.

Here you go:

"To hell with those "patriotic"; (soldiers are the only kind of true HERO of this country....blah blah blah) sort of status updates.

Just because an individual (man or woman) chooses to have employment in the service of their country, that decision in and of itself does not separate he/she from ‘heroism’, and by definition (which is: remarkable physical or moral courage) does not make them any bigger of a hero than the individual who:  In his or her mortal tenure…strives to do all of the below listed acts of mortal existence:

1. Loves and honors their God (who and whatever that God may be).

2. Lives a morally correct life, pertaining to their chosen philosophy.

3.  Loves and honors their sacred filial (family) relationships, and does everything in his/her power to provide basic needs for those that he/she has physical and spiritual stewardship for. 

4.  Obeys the laws pertaining to the gov’t whose system he/she is a part of.   

Let’s define, so to first defend the English language, and also to educate one another about the proper use, (or maybe the over exaggerated use of) the word…

HERO

1. Somebody who commits an act of remarkable bravery or who has shown an admirable quality such as great courage or strength of character

2. Somebody who is admired for outstanding qualities or achievements.

The Arts: the principal male character in a movie, novel, or play, especially one who plays a vital role in plot development or around whom the plot is structured.

Mythology: in classical mythology, a man, especially the son of a god and a mortal, who is famous for possessing some extraordinary gift such as superhuman strength.  In Greek mythology, a priestess of Aphrodite whose lover Leander swam the Hellespont to visit her every night, and who drowned herself after he drowned in the strait.

Food: a sandwich made from a long roll or loaf of bread with a filling of meat and cheese with lettuce and tomato.

Please, America, before we mistakenly compare our service men to an extra-long turkey on rye, let’s look inward and begin to strengthen the forces that define us.  If we say we are better, let’s be better.  Let’s do better.  Let’s start, again, to define each other and the valiance of the life that an individual lives, by the fruits of the trees that our homes are built of; and not rather, by the only occupation that answers to the Commander in Chief.

I agree that soldiers are heroes.  I also declare that any man and woman of the same citizenship of a soldier, who wages war on the decline of morals, is, in his or her own right, very much a TRUE HERO.

For those who I love who are in this battle of life with me, do not give up.  Do not, for any reason, commit treason to the oath of moral straightness which you have given to yourself and the rest of us.  Live strong, fight stronger.  Emboss upon your heart the word of the apostle Paul to Timothy while exhorting him to be strong in true faith and living, “For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love and of a sound mind.”

Let me be “brave as a hero” enough to say that whosoever lives through any circumstance in life, or occupation, and fulfills this admonition of Paul is worthy of a headstone befitting to a HERO.

 So here I am a year later, and I have still been thinking about this concept.  I've confronted it a couple times, from a couple of angles.  One of which was from the observation of women I've known who are the wives of soldiers.  While doing this I thought also of ordinary women who do so much, to allow the men that they are fiercely loyal to, to carry on in the battles of life.  For the women of the world whose men wear any kind of fatigues, (car-hart jeans, camouflage, or lab coat) I wrote this poem below.  I wrote it because later in the same year in which I went off about heroes, I began to ponder about your role in the warfare of our world. This time it was something I saw on television prompted me.  The media has a way of displaying the American soldier in so many lights.  One of which is as heroes.  Discouraged at times, but rarely defeated, so long as they live through their service.  But even then,  they are kind of immortalized.  However, as I see it, television, radio, Facebook, even movies continue to isolate the "great American hero" to the soldier, and primarily the MALE soldier. 

Let me put it this way.  

When was the last time, that next to a yellow ribbon on a city light post, or tree in a park (which are quite often tied with specific individuals in mind).....

When was the last time that another ribbon was tied next to, around, above, below, or anywhere near in an attempt to honor the woman who ALLOWS that fellow to serve.  

Okay, so not all of the soldiers serving in the military are married, or in relationships.  But, they did have a mother.  In some realm, in some way, on this earth, they had a mother.  So the same previous thought of mine is still valid.  

When was the last ribbon tied for the woman behind the service?

For the women who's men serve this world to provide for them, in any capacity this one's for you. -- 
For the men who are served by these women -- 
Who is your hero? 
Is it your wife?  
Mine is.  
She has many battle wounds, but she remains.  

To sum it up, I suppose that all people in their own way are a Hero to someone, somehow.  This recent rant just allowed me to even the score, and to (even though I'm not a soldier in the military) thank those (more specifically the wives of soldiers) who strive for goodness, righteousness, and freedom to prevail in the world. 

I know that you appreciate it when strangers thank your husband for his service, but THANK YOU for all you do to make it possible for him to serve.  It allows me the ability to be the man I am because of the women you are. 

The Real American SHE-RO

Where are her honors, for which she has battled?

            Night -- into mourning -- into night.

She gives suck unto those who seek Our Father,

            With humility -- her bosom -- free of any spite.

Her white dress turned camouflage the day of enlistment,

            Undone hair, tough skin, somehow she remains content. 

Courage in the face of everyday battles, she awaits,

            Every buzz on the wire brings nerve throttling fate –

Weapons of honor: duty and fidelity. Foxholes,

            Dugout by cleaning, tending, toil and weight.

Wounded in battle but undecorated, her purple medallion seems all too delayed

            The lives of her -- her children, she saves every day.

With hope as a fortress she fights, never quits,

            Valor, prudence, frugality, supplication – are her comrades.

She’ll never deploy, but is never reserved,

            From battle -- her life, a banner she waves.

To bravery she’s devoted and he keeps her – her land free,

            Till death does her part, she’ll do her part.

While brave is abroad, humanity she upholds,

            Through intuition and love, their history unfolds. 

Her intelligent “opps” exceed that of this world,

            Combating neither flesh -- nor blood, she wrestles still,

When will her bosom be seen as a symbol of service, at least, maybe more?

Where are her stripes? Her fanfare – décor? 

She’ll continues to sacrifice, serve and then – more.  

I PLAY SPECIAL TEAMS ON A SPECIAL TEAM -- MY "JOE WITH THE PRO'S" EXPERIENCE OF PLAYING "SEMI"-PROFESSIONAL FOOTBALL

A weekend ago I was able to experience two really wonderful things.  First and foremost, Father’s day!  My wonderful daughters and wife outfitted me with a new Under Armor hat and t-shirt.  They supplied me with a day’s worth of authentic old fashioned horehound candy (the kind that comes in a paper packet and is covered in powdered sugar), and an Ice cold can of Vernon’s ginger-ale. YUMMM! They even let me have both as part of my father’s day breakfast in bed! 

Secondly (and admittedly a bit more bitter-sweet) I played in what MAY be the very last football game I ever participate in.  I wish I had better news about the outcome – the final score was 10 -7 in favor of the opposing team – but as for the feeling afterword, well, that’s kind of what I wanted to write about. 

It’s too hard to pick just one word to describe it, so here are a few:

I FELT….

Fulfilled,

Honored,

Relieved,

Improved,

Loved,

Supported,

Accomplished,

Connected,

I could think of more words to describe it, but instead I will just tell you about it.  I’ll do my best to explain why it meant so much to participate in and finish this season, with this team. 

You see, in an attempt to pursue other ventures in my life, (including a move to Virginia to attended Southern Virginia University in the small town of Buena Vista) it has become necessary for me to kind of “Brett Favre” any decision to go through playing a third season of “semi”-professional football with THE IDAHO MATADORS, in the Rocky Mountain Football League (RMFL).  So until I’m otherwise compelled to join the BLACK AND GOLD next fall at practice, I’ve placed my helmet in relic-like fashion on a bookshelf where I am sure to view it every day.  I have sucked the last bid of saliva from my teeth guard.  And, with a sigh and a –gulp— I’ve tightened the belts on my shoulder pads – it seems they’ve gone “pop” for the last time.  To further explain why this decision is even remotely, emotionally, manageable for me, I won’t need “Brett Favre” level media coverage to get the word out.  

 I will however enlist the help of one of my favorite American Authors; Langston Hughes. 

Langston Hughes is one of the most revered African American poets of the last 100 years in literature.  His work identifies well with people who, because of their heritage and ancestral background, seek to enrich their life with rewarding experiences.  For him specifically, it was through the use of poems and essays directed to all Americans, celebrating and informing them of the rich culture of the Black people whose backs this country was built upon.  He himself is a direct descendant of African slaves, some of which were the first to be used for labor in the land we all enjoy with freedom-enriched gusto today…everyday:   

THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 

To learn more about Hughes, and to hear his very own voice read this poem, you can visit this link:

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15722

 “THE NEGRO SPEAKS OF RIVERS”

I've known rivers:

I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the

     flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.

I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.

I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.

I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln

     went down to New Orleans, and I've seen it’s muddy

     bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I've known rivers:

Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

--Langston Hughes

“THE NEGRO SPEAKS OF RIVERS”, is one of Langston Hughes’ most well-known poems.  It’s also a poem I identify with.  Not because I am African American.  Not even because I have any lineage that has any possibility of stemming from any place near the Nile, or the ancient pyramids.  I identify with it because with a certain amount of parallel thought it expresses the way I feel about the game of football, and my experience (especially most recently) with it. 

My first “down, set, hike” experience came in the fifth grade.  The way they did it in Nampa at the time was that you played for a city based team, but the team was made up of kids within your schools boundaries. I was a MIGHTY GREENHURST GRIZZLY. 

Ironically, my first football team’s colors were gold and black.  Of course, the all-white helmets and pants pale in comparison with the unique uniforms that Jesus Jara put together for the MATADORS 2011 squad.  (Jesus, that was your official plug!)  Uniforms aside, the football team I was on in fifth grade was one I wanted to be a part of.  And, all things considered, it was a good experience.  Unfortunately it was also the last football team I was a part of until my junior year in high school.

Understand this, that I don’t regret the past, and I don’t like to dwell on “what might have been” thoughts.  However, (as I age and gain wisdom through experience….I hope) I do have a very good understanding about how a life is changed and how the future is dictated by the choices that are made in the period of existence known as “the present”. 

I didn’t play on or have any part of a football team for five and a half years of my life. 

What was I thinking????? 

I was thinking that because of my first coach, who liked to scream and yell at ten year old kids in awkward pads and heinous two-bar face-masked helmets that football (something I knew I had in me) would never be fun again.  I was thinking that I was much better at baseball anyways, and that maybe someday I could play professional baseball. 

I was thinking from my head – not with my heart. 

Hell, I was ten, I forgive myself. 

Due to a few good friends, I grew out of my head and started to live through my heart.  I don’t remember exactly how, but I ended up at varsity football practice a week before my junior year at Skyview High School in Nampa.  To be honest, one of the only reasons I decided to play football was because I wanted to do something to stay in the best shape as possible to make the varsity baseball team that spring.  (I didn’t make the baseball team that spring, which, not only embittered me, but really screwed, up my “so-called” high school take on life.  This raised a whole new level of questions in my puberty stricken head!)  My expectations for myself as a football player were not very high.  That was okay, I was very aware that at 5’6” 165 pounds, unless I could kick a football a mile, I wouldn’t see the field much.  And I didn’t.  Actually, as I recall, that year I was on the kickoff team exactly once.  My senior season I played even less.  But I still enjoyed myself.  “Senior night” was uneventful for me, other than we won, and to honor all the seniors, instead of a starting lineup, the coach had the P.A. announcer call just the seniors to the center of the field – name and number –  one by one.  Oh, and I had a rally girl give me a kiss on the cheek and some balloons in our school colors! 

Time moved along…..

 

(Thank goodness I made the baseball team my senior year, or who knows what kind of cataclysmic spiral I would have gone into!)

cat·a·clys·mic  -- a sudden and violent upheaval or disaster that causes great changes in society

I graduated…..

I thought about college a little…

I was a Mormon Missionary for two years…

I got FAT….

Then I got married….

Then, I got skinny….

Then FAT again…..

Then I came to a place in life where I really began to question what the heck I was all about…as a person…in general.  I had a beautiful 2 year old daughter and another one in the oven.  I was closing the doors on a business that was supposed to be successful, and I was working at a girl scout camp as a facilities maintenance person fixing all the stuff that brownies break.  And believe me, brownies can break a lot of stuff.  Not to mention that a few girl scout cookies can make a waist line go along ways in just one summer!

I began to ask, “WHAT DEFINES ME?”  “Where on earth do I get all of my personality traits…POSITIVE…and (yes I can admit it) NEGATIVE?”  I turned to the source.  I decided to learn more about my ancestors.  I got no further than my Grandpa Hochstrasser and things started to make a little sense.  

One of the reasons that, as a child I aspired to Professional Baseball player status was because “Grandpa Bill” had been a mild legend in Boise…in baseball.  It wasn’t until I was 27 years old that I learned that he was also quite the place kicker (and backup quarterback) for the 1948 Boise Junior College football team.   

Bill Hochstrasser is in the back row, third player in uniform from the right.

This team is known in history as the team that began the tradition which Coach Lyle smith headed up.   

Bill Hocstrasser is sitting on the floor his back against a locker, three players up from coach Lyle Smith.

This team is attributed with laying the foundation for excellence which has helped to build what many know now as “Bronco Nation”. 

This was a new and interesting development in my definition of me.  Mostly I was in awe of my relation to somebody who had been a part of something so good which has become something very great today.  Then, I began to think about football, and my experience with it, and I began to realize that I was far from satisfied with myself for the way that I had used it (even selfishly at times, just to stay in shape).  In other words, football was good to me.  In reality, the game itself gave me more than my fair share of opportunities to participate in its offerings; in all that I could learn from it, and from what being part of a team offered me.  I began to realize that I had not given the game a chance to enrich me like it could have in my younger years. 

In the beginnings of my search for a team to play with, I was a little confused.  Then I was upset that I had wasted so much time.  Then I realized that both these feelings were a waste of time.  I soon found an opportunity with the MATADORS.  My participation started hesitantly.  I had a lot to learn and even greater strides to make physically to take part in this opportunity.  To be honest, even after playing “semi”-professional football, I still resemble nothing that looks like a football player.  Or maybe I do look like a football player, just not like Joel Gunstream.  

To be even more honest, until I found the MATADORS, the last real “on the field” experience I had came in August of 1998.  It was the pre-season jamboree between Nampa, Caldwell, Valleyview, and Skyview High Schools.  I was playing outside linebacker, and on what I thought was a pass play, Caldwell High’s Cody Pickett (you may have heard of him) rolled out to my side of the field.  This was no problem, until I realized he was not going to throw the ball.  The rest of the details include him walking into the end zone, and me on my back, and the rest is too gruesome to write about. 

It looked a little something like this. 

As we got on the bus, my coach reminded me that when I had kids of my own, and watched football on the television with them, I could tell them about my run in with Cody Pickett.  Thanks coach!  I haven’t told my kids the whole story, but I have seen Cody play football via my television.  Even on Sunday once I think!

Cody Pickett -- NFL quarterback

To be as honest as possible, (without lying) I am not quite sure how I’ve survived the last two years of being a part of the MATADORS.  I’ve had a separated rib, and a severely sprained wrist, and only recorded three tackles in 16 games.  The only explanation I have is that football is a part of my spiritual and physical genetic make-up, and my newly developed appreciation and love for it has carried me through – mostly unharmed. In reality, the only difference between me and my grandpa Hochstrasser, (literally, our height and weight are nearly identical as I come upon the age of 30) is that I was born into the world when physical size has more to do with playing football than spiritual destiny.

Grandpa Hochstrasser about 19 years old.  Check out those calf muscles!

Obviously, I am okay with that, and by joining the MATADORS I’ve not been trying to live any fantasy, I've not been trying to be a part of a world that's not my own, I’ve just been trying to be honest with a game that has somehow haunted me for some weird reasons over the years. That’s why when the season rounded out last Saturday, I was pleased as punch to have been part of the IDAHO MATADORS and able to accomplish what I consider somewhat of a miracle.  Something I didn’t think I’d ever do.  Amidst being a dad, going to school, and working for a meager income in this sputtering economy, I walked away Saturday having giving more than at previous times in life to the game of football, and my team.  From the opening kickoff Saturday, in which I felt more like a real football player than ever before, to after the game when my daughter (in the tradition she started this year) ran up and did some tackling on me (which made me feel like more of a football star than ever before).

Even at breakfast in bed the next morning, father’s day; when I was rewarded for being a dad, something God created me to do; I was blessed to feel a little bit…

Fulfilled,

Honored,

Relieved,

Improved,

Loved,

Supported,

Accomplished,

Connected.

I never personally experienced football the way I think my grandfather was able to.  I never kicked game winning field goals for teams as I’ve recently learned he did.  My team didn’t go undefeated and get snubbed of an invite to the “JR. ROSE BOWL” in Pasadena.  In a way, I am so thankful that I’ve experience football the way I have.  I’ve had the love and support of family and friends, good coaches that have done nothing but encourage me, teammates that I’ll remember forever, and memories that will last longer than that. 

   

It’s not always the specifics of a person’s life that allow them to tap into the depth of their purpose.  Sometimes it is as easy as just being able to find out where we came from to find out where we need to go.  Our life is defined by the journey we embark on and not by the destination we arrive at.  Keeping in mind that goals are the wind which blow our sails, it’s in the process of this discovery that our eyes can be opened to our real potential, and through the help of loved ones, (and even some rowdy teammates…’DORS UP!!!) we can begin to live life with greater-greatness – regardless of the final score. 

Me in "beast mode"!

All of these feelings and more leave me to, in the very least, mimic the poetic abilities of the great Langston Hughes, except, in a football kind of way…..

A GRANDSON SPEAKS OF FOOTBALL

I’ve known football teams. 

I’ve known football teams ancient as the treasure valley and older than the

               Flow of blue blood in Bronco Nations veins.

My soul has grown deep like these football teams.

I played for Boise Jr. College when the Blue and Orange was young.

I built my stadium near the foothills as fans cheered me to victory.

I looked upon the Boise River and raised the stadium above it.

I heard the march of blue thunder when Lyle Smith

               went down to Pasadena, and I’ve seen its melodic

               bosom turn all orange in the sunset.

I’ve known football teams:

Ancient, legendary, football teams.

My soul has grown deep like the football teams. 

Jeffrey Scott Hankins