No More Heroes

NO MORE HEROES

Back in the early 80's (or maybe even the late 70's), the Stranglers rode a brief wave of punk stardom with a song entitled No More Heroes, which over the years, continues to be listed in the top 25 punk songs of all times.
The reason I bring this up now, is after having the word "heroes" thrown about like candy in the wake of September 11th, I fear, collectively, we may have lost its meaning. One can't open a newspaper or turn on the television these days without a mention of some new group of Americans (e.g., Greyhound bus drivers, all New York City teachers) being hailed as "heroes."
In the past, and likely, by definition, heroes were those who took on great odds, neglecting personal safety to bring about a greater good. Usually, this was in a struggle against some well entrenched system. While inclusion into the definition could be a subject of debate, a good case can be made for the likes of William Wallace, George Washington, Leon Trotsky, Mahatma Ghandi, Harriet Tubman, Father Oscar Romero, Nelson Mandella, Joan of Arc and perhaps even the student who faced down the tanks in Tiananmen Square.
So, let's not cheapen their endeavors.
Yes, members of our own New York Police and Fire Department who climbed the World Trade Center on that fateful day to have it collapse upon them were valiant and "heroic" And personally, I, along with several other patrons at a local bar, would not let members of our NYFD put so much as a dollar on the bar after a day of working "the site". But, more importantly, are some of these people genuine heroes? Yes. Is everyone belonging to the NYFD or PD a hero? Unlikely. Should we label every single person who has lifted a brick from the WTC site a hero? Definitely not.
Lastly, to exagerate the point, as I rode back into New York last night, I saw a billboard reminding me that ALL New Yorkers are now heroes. Man, I hope I get a cool pin.
Add to this, some notable items of aggravation related to recent events, such as: a) a talent- deficit musician by the name of Lee Greenwood and his current rise to superstardom, b) the right wing zealots who are seizing this opportunity to strip away as many civil liberties as possible under the guise of making us feel "safer", c) Carnivore (read up on it, as it will likely catch this message) being installed by every major ISP in the USA, and d) the airline industry, who needs billions of dollars in order to stay afloat for the good of America, despite an impressive long string of years of maximum profits derived from full planes, overbooked flights and the resulting air-rage caused by reducing the available space per person on planes to the point that no one over 5'1" can sit still for more than 1.5 hours without cramping up.
Which brings us to Hakeem Al Fayed, a Syrian born immigrant, who works over in the West Village as a cook. On the night of September 10th, Hakeem had the good fortune to meet Tiffany Higginbotham at a bar in Williamsburgh and bring her home with him. Tiffany, a transplant from Mississippi, lives in a small nondescript studio over in the Hell's Kitchen area and despite her being far too short, still has hopes and aspirations of making it as a model in New York City one day.
Though Tiffany generally does not "do these type of things" (her words), she found Hakeem quite handsome and "nice." After all, his place was a lot closer than hers. So, after receiving his assurances that they would just "sleep" together, they shared a taxi to his flat in Red Hook. They also shared his bed and Hakeem endured a night of not so much as even having "little Hakeem" touched. But, she was quite pretty, so, it was a "livable" arrangement.
They were thrown for a major loop that morning. First, hearing the great rumble and later, turning on CNN to learn of how their world was to change forever on this day. The birds-eye view of the events from their Red Hook location in Brooklyn put them all so close to the cataclysm. These moments created an emotional connection between them that the night before could not have managed. The burning in Tiffany's loins could now only be addressed by voracious session of lovemaking lasting well into the afternoon. Tiffany was usually one to insist on condoms, but when the world is going to hell around you, these precautions seem trivial.
Later, as Hakeem was in the kitchen preparing to reheat the now stale morning coffee, Tiffany sat on the couch by herself watching CNN. She paused to think that Hakeem's place was kind of "dumpy" compared to the flats of the up-and-coming brokers and investment bankers she had made a habit of letting use her. Furthermore, as additional info poured in on the tele about the possible origins of the attacks, Tiffany found herself eyeing Hakeem with a new suspicion. She had never bothered asking where he was from (lacking any knowledge of geography, as it would have mattered anyway). Tiffany turning inward (and likely, some it from a natural bout with "good-girl" guilt) now found herself feeling cheap and even worse, un-American.
She excused herself to the bathroom. There, resorting to a sudden stupid impulse to "get back at him," found herself writing "Welcome to the World of Aids" on his bathroom mirror in her cheap red $2 lipstick she had bought at CVS the week before. She hurriedly left, addressing his surprised "can I call you?" on her way out with a rapidly made up phone number.
Now, to the present. Hakeem's neighbors don't trust him. Every subway ride back and forth to his job yields stares of suspicion from police and fellow passengers alike. And on top of all that, he has this gnawing feeling in his stomach (despite his friend's assurances that the found message in the bathroom is bullshit old American urban legend, which he'd know already, had he been here longer) that he may have contacted something and not being able to afford any type of health insurance, could really be fucked.
But, he presses on, despite the occasional overheard conversation in bars of "rounding up those brown bastards" and the almost daily reports of something happening to groups that are as far removed from Afghanistan as Norwegians are from native Tasmanians. And, for the first time since he came to this country, he is afraid. Yet, he finds some relative comfort in the words his mother said to him as he left his homeland to follow his dream in America.. They were, "remember Hakeem, every time the clock strikes 12, a new day begins." He just wishes he knew when that day will be a good one.
And, at this moment, I think of Hakeem, and you know what, maybe I think I have found myself a new hero.