Heroes IV--Stonewall Jackson

Heroes IV—Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson

Lest you think that all my heroes are fictional, let’s jump to a few historical figures. First off: one of the greatest (arguably) military men the Americas ever produced: Thomas Jonathan “Stonewall” Jackson. Much as it embarrasses me to admit it, I still haven't finished Dabney's defining biography of him after three years of on-and-off effort. But I will. In the meantime, I still know a few things.

Born in the backwoods of Virginia in 1824, he survived becoming an orphan, brutal work, and poor schooling until he entered West Point at the age of eighteen. There he displayed a single-minded determination that was to mark the rest of his life, rising from dead last in the academic rankings to seventeenth by graduation. His peers later said that if studies had lasted another year, he would have made first place. He immediately left to fight in the Mexican war as an artilleryman, earning some recognition for a gallant defense at Chapultepec. He was assigned to the Virginia Military Institute after the war and taught there. While he was a terrible teacher—he memorized his lectures, recited them by rote, and never deviated from them—he was a better churchman, and taught Sunday school to the black slaves of Lexington. His first wife died here in childbirth.

When the war broke out, he organized the 2^nd, 4^th, 5^th, 27^th and 33^rd VA Regiments into a brigade he commanded. On July 21^st, 1861—156 years ago to the day—he led them to immortality on the fields of Manassas. General Bee attempted to rally his fleeing troops by shouting, “Look at Jackson! There he stands like a stone wall. Rally behind the Virginians!” Both the commander and the brigade would ever after bear the sobriquet “Stonewall.”

Afterwards came the triumphs that built his legend: The Valley Campaign, Second Manassas, Chancellorsville. His audacity, speed, and coolness under fire all became parts of an enduring story that was almost a myth. His basic Calvinistic believe in divine providence gave him no cause for fear, his solitary devotion to duty left him no time for playing politics. There were the enemy, and it was his God-given, terrible duty to destroy them until they laid down their arms. With his brilliance came all the usual idiosyncrasies of genius—he always stayed bolt upright even in the saddle to keep his organs in place; sucked lemons; tended to throw his left hand out, palm upright, as he waged battles and implored divine providence; and tended to throw the full weight of military court-martial at subordinates who committed very minor offences. But his soldiers loved him and he won battles—the two ultimate tributes to a fighting commander.

He died of pneumonia May 10th, 1863, eight days after being mistakenly wounded by his own troops after his great triumph at Chancellorsville. He had cemented his place in history in a little under two years. A great soldier, a devout Presbyterian, and a doting husband, he remains an inspiration to me and many others in North and South alike.

Heroes III--Obi-Wan Kenobi

Now that’s a name I’ve not heard in a long time...

(How long?)

A long time...

    Since according to the local paper, Star Wars came out twenty-five years ago today, it seems fitting to proceed to my next hero of fiction. Jedi Knight, teacher, hermit, strategist, and wiseacre, Obi-wan Kenobi stands out as the foremost character of Star Wars outside the Skywalker family. His portrayal has been excellent through every incarnation. Alec Guiness’ nuanced performance in the original when telling Luke his story is literally the reason George Lucas was able to make prequels. Ewan McGregor gave the young Obi-wan a dash of spirit and charm that along with Anthony Daniels carries the prequels through some of their worst moments (Except maybe that mullet in Attack of the Clones). James Arnold Taylor bridged the two with an excellent voice performance in Clone Wars. From the first lightsaber battle with Vader, to that epic multi-level duel with Maul, to Asaij Ventress, Grevious, Savage Opress and Maul together... even Anakin on Mustafar...he’s had the best battling skills in the franchise to date with a blade. And even in the darkest moments, he never loses his cool. 

And did you know that now that "Obi-wan Kenobi" is a traditional fourth nonsense answer on multiple-choice questions online? Now you do.

"I've got a bad feeling about this..."

The Sirens and Charybdis

It’s 0005. (That’s 12:05 AM, some of you.)

I’m up due to circumstances entirely within my control but outside my choice. You see, I’m in school, and I work a night shift. So occasionally when I get a day off, I wind up awake in the wee hours of the morning, blinking and wondering what on earth I’m supposed to do. I certainly ain’t sleeping.

Of course, the answer always lurks around every corner of every book on the floor and note on the desk: homework. There is always homework. Outline this. Study that. Memorize this. And with term finals starting in three days and plenty of work to still consider and the fact that I really haven’t grown any more disciplined than the old days of “eat, drink, and watch movies, for tomorrow is a test day” all piling up over my head, homework seems less of a duty and more like a hulking monster. A great, hungry, dragon-toothed, all-consuming monster; eating up all my joy, and time, and energy. “You want to read a book for fun?” he snarls. “Ha. You have an essay to write and a six-hour project due Thursday. You haven’t even touched them. And there’s your summary due tomorrow. Done any of that? That’s in twelve hours, mind. You want to talk to God about your future, your worry, your sins and triumphs? No time for that, miserable fool! I have consumed it! I will consume it all!”

Panic.

And when I panic, my habit is to run to my old false gods. Entertainment. Oblivion. Had I lived a hundred years ago, I’d be at the tavern, a large mug of something in my hand and two more empty beside it. Fifty years ago, I’d still be at the mall beating a high score on Pac-man or out cruising with the radio turned way up. Now I click a few times and watch Facebook or Netflix fade into a thousand little pixelated opiates; idols soothing and whispering, “Who cares about tomorrow? Dopamine, not deadlines.”

Odysseus didn’t get it quite right. Most of us don’t have to sail between Scylla and Charybdis, but between the Sirens and Charybdis. On the one hand is the great sucking monster of duties and obligations, pulling our effort, money, and time itself in like a great black hole. But push your way outside of that and you drift into a misty, golden-hued land of lotus fumes and soothing notes, promising to fulfill your every desire. Of course, it’s a trap. Death waits there as surely as at the bottom of Charybdis’ rotting, gaping maw. But it seems much more pleasant, and far more gradual. Listen to them sing: Why die today, listener? Far better to linger on in our voluptuous land of sensate stimulation. Are you not weary with much toil? Your roommate’s asleep. No one will ever know, and food eaten in secret is sweet. Come to us, and we will give you your heart’s desire. You wish for victory and bloody triumph? We have a thousand varieties, enough for a lifetime. You wish for a pretty companion? We have every kind, more than Solomon’s whole harem, without a disagreement or misunderstanding to be seen. You wish for peace? We have every Hallmark moment you could devise and ten more, all with just the right chords playing in the background. Come to us, and be free. Come to us and be happy. Come. Come. Come.

With that kind of siren call pounding in my blood and no other prospects but Charybdis’ dark vortex of school and work and endless chores, is it any wonder why I drift towards Siren Island so often? There doesn’t seem to be any other way out. Damned to either work myself to death or waste my life—I might as well pick the more pleasant option. There’s no other choice.

That’s a lie, of course. There is a way out, no temptation beyond what we can bear. But we have to find it, and it’s not where we think it is. Unlike Odysseus, God doesn’t give us a vanishingly small belt of safe sea in between our painful callings and our fleeting pleasures. We don’t have to constantly trim sail to maintain course between two dangers. He gives us an escape. There’s an exit sign flashing in the gloom. Unfortunately, it’s right in the middle of Charybdis’ dark, slurping mouth. “No, wait,” we think. “That can’t be right. God screwed up.”

If I can screw up, what chance is there for you, child? Look to the ant, go to your labor. Dive all the way in to it and hold nothing back. Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might. That includes work and homework and the dishes, you know—even every second of your time. For everything there is a season.

“Wait. Don’t you want me to be happy? What about pleasures and joy? Don’t the Sirens promise more of those than that monster of work, Charybdis?”

Why this aversion to work, son? Even I work in creating, sustaining, saving and beautifying. This is the path of life, where at my right hand are pleasures forevermore. There is nothing better than that a man should rejoice in his work, for that is his lot and my gift to man.

Gulp. “If I go that way, there’s no way out. I’ll die.”

Yes, you will, He chuckles. But that’s all right. I’m in the resurrection business. 

Barbar-Y-ans: Men and the Differences of Civilization

Yes, this is pretty much my mother every holiday...

I just went home for Christmas. It was glorious. Every time I opened the pantry, there was food. Meals appeared on the table around six in the evening with scientific, predictable regularity. It was varied: chicken fried steak, breakfast casserole, turkey, cherry pie, green beans, mashed potatoes. It was endless: second helpings, third helpings, for twelve people. It was beautiful: eaten atop a tablecloth; with real napkins; a knife, fork and spoon to every plate; pitchers for the beverages; a centerpiece gaudily blocking your view of the sibling across the table.

And it wasn’t just the food. When you sat down to read in the easy chair, bookshelves placed to maximize space greeted you near at hand. Lamps adorned end tables and strategic corners. Decorations—almost unnoticed until you looked for them—lent a general air, a theme almost, to each room. Don’t even get me started on the Christmas stuff overlaying all this.

Home. I roll out of bed, shake my head, and wander to the kitchen; a bare white, frill-less affair which is (at best) merely clean. I yank open the refrigerator, grab an egg I hard boiled the day before, whack it a few times on the counter. The salt shaker is almost empty. I dust the egg with it, eat it in three bites over the sink, and chuckle at the difference between this and three days ago. Breakfast is served. Welcome to the key difference between a bachelor pad and a home: civilization.

Webster defined “civilization” as “The act of civilizing, or the state of being civilized; the state of being refined in manners, from the grossness of savage life and improved in arts and learning.” And I think access to this state is granted largely by the hand of women. If you want to build a great nation, a great city, a good home, you need the influence of women. Exclusive Y-chromosomes won’t cut it. Haven’t you ever wondered why manners and women are often so closely associated? When someone is rude and mannerless, the common thing to say is “chivalry is dead” not “manners is (are?) dead.” Women define polite society in ways that are literally everywhere.

Entering a building? Open the door. Walking along the street? Take the outside. Eating something? Pull her chair out and serve her first. Going somewhere fancy? Wear stark black and white and watch the colors, shades, and tones beside you become even more glorious by sheer comparison.  Setting the table for stew? Use the forks and knives. Yes, we all know that no one will actually use the forks and knives , that they will get dirty, that the twelve-year-old will get stuck washing three times the amount of silverware the meal actually needs. Need is pragmatic, utilitarian, male. The point is civilization—beauty. Speaking of beauty, Beauty and the Beast made this point about the influence of the fairer sex nicely. Remember how the Beast ate like a barbarian (or dare I say, a barbar-Y-an)? It was practical, quick—and utterly unsuitable for company.

This is not to say that men cannot build their own societies, their own civilizations, by themselves. Of course they can. But I think they differ qualitatively from what we commonly think of as civilization. The highest expression of male organization is not the ballroom, the state dinner, Christmas, or the welcome mat inside a cozy cottage. If civilization is the “state of being refined in manners, from the grossness of savage life…” then the Y-chromosome version is the art of refined savage life. Put a bunch of guys together for long enough, and they will produce hunting lodges paved in pelt and accented in antlers. They will not build homes and families dedicated to inviting others in; they will build armies and battleships, refined to the startlingly sharp purpose of keeping other people out.  The opposite of the welcome mat is the bayonet.

Women gave us meals with seven courses and thirty-two forks; men gave us carry-out pizza and that utilitarian (and ugly) utensil the spork. Now there are days when I’m greatful for my barbarian bachelor pad. It is disgustingly easy, charmingly disorganized, and there’s nothing to dust under on the shelves. But refined relationships—civilization—do not develop in a bachelor pad among the Y-chromosome crowd.

That takes the other half of humanity.

"You're Not A Match for Him, Cap"

The scene is tense. A nine-foot-tall robot is this close to taking over the world and wiping out humanity. Just one man is close enough to stop him. But this man (while a very strong and active man) is only that—not enough to stop this remorseless mass of metal.

It’s comic land, of course, and a Marvelous one, at that. Captain America is going after Ultron in Seoul during the epic Avengers: Age of Ultron, and he is alone. None of the team capable of going toe-to-toe with the villainous robot—Iron Man, Thor, the Hulk—is even on the same continent. It’s up to him.

And at the precise moment he goes into the fray and is dodging fire, his teammate calmly informs him, “You’re not a match for him, Cap.”

Encouraging. Real sunshiney bedside manner you have there, Hawkeye. Way to stand by your teammate.

I can relate. Most of my focus problem stems from another monster of modern technology: the entertainment culture. Whether that’s computer games and Netflix or the darker side of the net, it seems irresistible. Sit down. Be consumed. You tried scheduling? No dice. You try abstaining? You have to be near it for work. The siren call draws you in and consumes not only your free time but your sleep and time for other projects. You get hollow eyed and exhausted and instead of learning your lesson, you just fall quicker. Every time, nothing works. You try to fight your habits and desires, and you find out… you’re not a match for him, Cap.

Eye roll. Thanks, Barton.

No, actually that’s good news. You see, laziness/gluttony is a sin. It stems from Sin, proper. And if there was ever a monstrous baddie that was too big for one man to fight, sin qualifies. You really can’t win, James my lad. Not a hope. Impossible. Might as well give up. What’s the world worth, anyway?

But against all measured wisdom, Cap shows us the right solution. Jump in and fight. Go hand to hand. Slow it down with every trick, dodge, and evasion in the book, even if it feels like you’re throwing peas at a tank. Hurl the shield and watch it bounce off. Again. And again.

You don’t have to win. You just have to slow it down long enough for help to show up. Sin is inherently self-absorbed. It likes to forget about God. The greatest Power of all time, the one who promised never to leave you or forsake you. You may complain that He’s not here. You’re fighting alone just as usual. God’s absent!

Of course He is. Like any good hero, He likes to show up just in the nick of time. The story’s better that way.

So the next time temptation, technological or otherwise, stares you in the face and your mind tells you with a perfectly straight face, “You’re not a match for him, Cap,” what do you do?

Jump in. Throw the Shield.

Once Upon A Day--July 30th

Two hundred and twelve days into Anno Domini MMXI, it is time to remember the past once again. Let us see what transpired in days of yore.

A.D. 1619—The first representative body in America, The Virginia House of Burgesses, convenes in Jamestown.

1818—Emily Bronte, the famous English author, is born.

1863—Henry Ford is born. He would create more bored employees than ever before with the principal introduction of the assembly line principle, and more vacation possibilities than ever before with the mass production of the Model T.

1864—The Battle of the Crater—during the Petersburg campaign of the War Between the States, Lt. Col. Henry Pleasents, a former Pennsylvania miner, came up with a plan to break the trench warfare stalemate by using the old tactic of mining to blow a hole in the Confederate lines. They drove the tunnel over 500 feet before packing it full of four tons of gunpowder. It was exploded at 0444 hours and threw the Confederates who survived into a panic. However, a last minute change in the attacking column from Ferrero’s division of Colored Troops to Leslie’s division meant the troops were untrained and uninformed. They bunched in the crater, as did the supporting forces of the second wave, and the steep sides trapped them. Confederate general Mahone later described the result as a “turkey shoot.” After 3,789 Yankee casualties and 1,419 Confederate, the situation of the siege remained unchanged. Grant later called it “the saddest affair I have witnessed in this war.”

1918—Joyce Kilmer, the poet most famous for Trees, is killed while serving with the 165^th RGT (“The Fighting 69^th”) during the 3^rd Battle of the Marne by a sniper bullet while scouting enemy lines.

1932—Flowers and Trees is premiered by Walt Disney—it is the first color cartoon short.

1971—Apollo 15—David Scott and Jim Irwin land on the moon, bringing the Lunar Rover and becoming the first men to drive on another planetary body. Presumably with a license. 

Send in the Clouds

I have said often (as the poor friends who hear all my smart remarks five times probably know) that God smiles indulgently as his children smear oils and watercolors on canvas, and then proceeds to use water vapor, colliding helium atoms, hot and cold air currents, and planetary rotation to paint something like this… every twenty-four hours.

Less, if you count the sunrises and sunsets. It also changes every second that you watch it, looks different depending on what longitude you happen to be at, and can’t actually be fully captured by a photograph. At least, that’s what my shutterbug friends tell me.

Most people like sunshine better than clouds. Bright, luminescent days full of deep green grass and deep blue sky and deep, clear water to drink as it sparkles. Those are the days for fun, for picnics, football, painting, flying kites. Cloudy days are for scrubbing floors and listening to old lugubrious country songs. Even on mostly sunny days, clouds are when your mother shivers and reaches for her second sweater. Nobody likes clouds.

But did you ever stop to think that without clouds, sunsets wouldn’t be nearly as glorious? They cover the light, sure, but in the right place they can reflect it, refract it, and produce more colors than we have names for. Rose. Purple. No, pink. Rosurplink?

Life is like that. Who wants clouds in their life? A lost job. A sick relative. Addiction. Depression. Loneliness. Pressure.  It can seem like they cover you and suck all the joy out of life, all the light and warmth out of your picnic. You shiver and reach for that second sweater, thinking something like, “Ah, how the Lord in his anger has set the Daughter of Zion under a cloud!” And then, if you’re watching, if you’re standing in exactly the right place, the sun behind the clouds makes an appearance. And the troubles change color. “Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness.” So wrote another fellow named James. And he was, if I may freely translate, telling all you sunshiny people that you should ask God to send in the clouds. Otherwise, where is your testimony? Who tells others of their thankfulness for how God got them through the blissful Hobbiton days of life? It is in the Paths of the Dead and the slopes of Caradhras and Orodruin where stories are made. If the sun always shone uninterrupted, where would your sunsets come from? This is how God works. Darkness turned to glory. Crosses turned to honor. Clouds… turned to sunsets. Clouds are what make the relatively ordinary circumstance of the sun dipping below the horizon into something you pull over and watch until it stops.

Actually, it technically never stops at all. Sunlight is always angling off of some atmosphere somewhere. God just ceaselessly speaks the word “sunset” (or sunrise, depending on your point of view) and there is sunset. And God sees that the sunset is good. “See, look what I painted you. Right there. Just for you and the few hundred in the right spot to see it. Darkness made into even better light. I even gave you those wonderful eyes to see it with. Look, look, before it’s gone! You missed it? Well, don’t fret. I’ll do it again tomorrow.”

The Normal World

Black. White. Cops. Snipers. Muslims. Gays. Innocents. Guilty. Dallas. Orlando. Ferguson. Paris. Boston. New Town. Virginia Tech…

They roll by in soundbite ribbons at the bottom of screens. They pop up in newsfeeds as we see what our friends are up to. The next day, they glare crookedly out of glass-fronted boxes, daring us to spend a few hard-earned quarters on an actual newspaper.

I wonder what our great-grandfathers would have thought about that?

The headlines, not the newspapers. A world where fifty people can die in a day—that’s nothing. In 1911, 126 people died in a fire at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory in New York City. 130 died in 1944 Chicago as a result of a natural gas explosion that leveled a square mile of the city. Over six thousand died in the Galveston Hurricane of 1900. And that doesn’t include the wars. But a world where individuals can kill others just for being different—en masse and at random—what kind of a world does that look like?

The normal one, actually. Those who lament about such crimes, such unheard-of atrocities, really betray their ignorance, or perhaps more charitably, their innocence. The fear of the unknown, of the different, of the outsider—these drove most of human civilization. For in most places and times, the guiding motive in relationships with outsiders was one of suspicion and hostile distrust. Love your enemy? Please. Be realistic. Protect the tribe! Defend the clan! Guard the city! The foreigner, the barbarian, the infidel, the gypsy—it was safer to be rid of them. Banish them. Kill them. In the city square or the battlefield if you can, in the dead of night or the alley if you can’t. And the guns? Please. That’s a pretty merciful way to go. They used to use swords. Nooses. Or bonfires. Hitler is famous, not because his goals were a new idea, but because he figured out how to accomplish them in the scientific-industrial manner—cleanly, efficiently, and wholesale. Before that you had to do messy genocide like the Assyrians.

When faced with those who are different from you, the natural result is to assume that something is wrong with the other guy. I’m a white middle-class Harvard businesswoman from the suburbs, so it must be the black boy’s fault. I’m a fatherless, abandoned kid whose mother won’t stay off drugs, just trying to survive in a hostile world, so it must be the cop’s fault. I’m a teenager who after a lifetime of ennui and purposelessness finally finds something that demands total commitment and promises total reward, so, as the Prophet said, it must be infidel America’s fault. All three of these can grow up in the same city, root for the same ball team, even go to the same supermarket—and in a very real sense speak totally different languages. Try the word America out for starters. What does that mean for each of them? Opportunity? Oppression? The Great Satan?

And lo, secularism claimed that it could reach past that language barrier, that through education, or societal improvement, or some other fifty billion dollar program it could remake brutal man into a naturally loving cooperative, where being different was appreciated, not feared. The lion could lie down with the lamb, Muhammadan with lesbian, police chief with junkie. All those differences really didn’t matter (unless you were trying for a scholarship or government position.) The Federation of Star Trek in real life.

Fifty years (perhaps more) later, here we are. Kill the pigs. Deep six the sodomites. Allahu akbar.

If you suppress the differences, they pop out eventually. If you magnify them, you can’t get anything done. Catch-22, secularism. So much for the brotherhood of man. You can’t even figure out how to define one of those anymore, anyway.

People don’t ever naturally love what is different. That’s a Hollywood myth, reinforced by cute pictures of ‘innocent’ children playing on the same playground. The pictures that don’t ever show you the playground bully or the name-calling. Rogers and Hammerstein were wrong: you don’t “have to be carefully taught.” We just like to love... what’s just like us.

And then a man came into the world. He was like us in every way except one: his love went where it wasn’t supposed to go. Gentiles. Tax collectors. Rich fat cats with education. Poor prostitutes with none. Warmongers. Bottom-class laborers. Outsiders—and insiders. Dark men from Ethiopia. Light men from Rome. He loved them all so much that it threatened the very existence of order, and so they killed him outside their city as a troubler of the peace. Someone had to pay, and it was his fault.

And then he kept coming back. Greeks started eating with Jews. Rich men sat with poor men on the first day of the week. The woman who could give tuppence was valued as much as the man who gave talents of gold. He was the countryman, he was the urban nobleman. He was everywhere. So they killed him again. And again. And again. It was his fault the city fell, that the plague came, that the harvest was poor. Justice was done. His fault.

Finally they gave in through sheer exhaustion. They watched as the lion laid down with the lamb, as unity of mind, sympathy, brotherly love, a tender heart, and a humble mind became commonplace. Oh, there were hiccups, flare-ups, occasional imbalances. But eventually everyone got so accustomed to this state of affairs that after a millennium, they assumed it was normal, the base state of mankind.

But it’s not. That kind of unity only comes when we can look not at but through our differences to something beyond. But what? An abstract “brotherhood of man” will only cut it for the mushy, imaginative, often gullible ones. A lofty government that can force you to love at the point of a bayonet will only appeal to the greedy ones who love power. Even the other religions won’t love everybody the same, not if they want to remain unchanged and consistent. Women, heathen, the unenlightened, the unborn, the old, the unfit—somebody has to pay. It’s their fault.

But it’s our fault. We did it. The Triangle Trade. Auschwitz. Boston. Orlando. Dallas.  But that man who loved in the wrong places took the blame. Justice was done. We’re not guilty. And so we have nothing left to protect, and nothing left to hate in the others. Here is unity. We speak the same language, with the same Word, behold, we are one people, and we have all one language, and this is only the beginning of what we can do. And nothing that we are commanded to do will now be impossible for us.

Change the “normal” world. Love God. Love your neighbor.

Heroes II

The Lone Ranger

Stats

Classification: Hero of Fiction (TV, Radio, Film)   

Origin: 1933, Radio Station WXYZ in Detroit

Skills: Excellent horseman, strategist, pugilist, and unsurpassable quick-draw artist.

Defining Moment: Lone Ranger TV Series, 1949-57

“A firey horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust, and a hearty, ‘Hi-yo Silver!’—the Lone Ranger!”

Yes, return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear! I grew up with a few Lone Ranger episodes on VHS (yes, I will tell my children tales of VHS the way my father talks of 8-tracks) as well as Roy Rogers and Hopalong Cassidy. And they taught me a few truths that many of my compatriots missed out on. Keep your word. Help the underdog. Thinking and planning ahead will beat pure force nine times out of ten. And lastly, the good guys always win. Some of the storytellers of our day in Hollywood and New York could stand to relearn that last one.

Here rode a man who stood for justice, who needed no reward, notoriety, or frequently even thanks. He never shot to kill, because “if a man must die, it’s up to the law to decide that, not the person behind a six-shooter.” While I am neither fast or accurate enough to live up to that rule, it’s a great sentiment. Not to mention his bullets were made of silver, meaning he had to count the cost every time he pulled the trigger. He made enemies forgive each other; defended old men, women, and children; and generally worked to grow the West up into the kind of civilization that wouldn’t need him. Today’s government workers could take note.

The actor who portrayed him on TV, Clayton Moore, took his role as a children’s icon very seriously, striving to communicate in his personal life the same values he lived by on screen.  He remains the only actor with a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame that also has the name of his character.

Hi-yo, Silver, away!

Heroes

Behold, the fit is on me. Bystanders beware, for I must write.

My intention is over the next few weeks to do a series of posts on my heroes. These may come from fiction, history, or acquaintances, and will be ranked in no particular order. My guess is that you, dear reader, may learn a little bit about me. Perhaps I may as well. We become like what we worship, and in this case, I believe we become like what we respect (or spend time with) as well.

My hope is that I choose to become like those who are worth following. A fellow whose hero is Josef Stalin is going to turn out different from one who idolizes FDR or Lincoln, who again is going to be different from one who loves John Adams. What you chase determines often where you wind up. And with the pervasive influence of media in our culture, a fictional role model can be just as important as a historical.

This seems worthy of a post in itself. But for now… on to our first hero.

Optimus Prime

Stats

Classification: Hero of Fiction (TV)

Appearance: 18-wheeler truck cab/giant red and blue robot

Origin: First in Transformers, 1984.
Skills: Leadership, wisdom, tactics, history, hand-to-hand combat, and a mean driver to boot.

Defining Moment: “Orion Pax, Part 3” “Alpha/Omega” (Transformers: Prime S2)

He’s first because he inspired this series of posts, and also because he is probably the biggest. He is, after all, an 18-wheeler truck a large part of the time. Hailing from 1984, born of the desire of some American and Japanese businessmen to sell toys, he has since become THE face of a hugely popular franchise. Multiple cartoon series, big budget hours-long explosions… I mean, Michael Bay films, and yes, toys. The version of Optimus that inspires me, though, comes from one of my two favorite cartoons of all time—Transformers Prime. And if you’re one of those people that think cartoons are for little kids, think again. This series is amazing—and often more adult than you’re expecting.

Optimus is the ultimate selfless leader—wise, patient, brave, and trusting to a fault. And millennia of combat have made him one of the few warriors that can stand a chance one-on-one with the big bad himself, Megatron. He won’t fight unless all the other options are exhausted, but if he does, run—the Big Guy packs quite a punch. He puts himself, and his team, on the line for humanity when they cannot do so themselves, and is content with anonymity—a robot in disguise. Sound familiar?

Great Moment: Optimus Prime is probably best encapsulated in the episode “Alpha/Omega,” where he and his nemesis battle wielding weapons that could destroy cities with ease. Megatron, ever the egocentric motormouth, pointedly observes that “At last we take our rightful places, Optimus—as gods!” He calmly replies, “I am but a humble soldier, Megatron, and you are the victim of your own twisted delusions!”

And of course, much credit goes to one of the great masters of voice acting, Peter Cullen, who can make anything sound cool, from the famed command “Autobots, roll out!” to great epic usages of epimone like this:

“I am Optimus Prime, and I send this message: Though we did not choose to be of Earth, it would seem that we are here to stay. If you approach this planet with hostile intent, know this: we will defend ourselves. We will defend humanity. We will defend—our home.”

Okay, and this picture just 'cause I'm proud of it and it's cool...