The Fallen Hero

The last few days, I've been thinking about a post I wrote a few months back. It was about being the hero or heroine in your own story and life, and I still believe there are a lot of good things about that idea, like taking action and responsibility to make things happen.

But I think there are also some potential pitfalls.

I recently started reading The Hero With a Thousand Faces, by Joseph Campbell, which talks about the universal traits of a hero -- the characteristics that show up in every story, regardless of culture, of every man or woman who has been preserved in story. It's fascinating, but I came across something even more interesting:

The Tyrant.

Campbell refers specifically to King Minos, who started his own story as a hero. His people loved him, he won the favor of the gods... and then he started acting in selfishness.

The short version, for those who don't want an instant education in Greek mythology, is that his self-centered living resulted in the Minotaur, a monster that lived in an underground stone maze and was fed human sacrifices. And despite causing the death of countless innocents, King Minos continued to see himself as the hero.

I think that's still true today. People live their stories believing they are heroes, though they act as tyrants.

One way you can identify them is that they don't believe in other stories.

You are cast in their story, the one in which they are good and loved and wonderful even while they cause destruction everywhere. Your lack of faith in the tyrant's heroism might be seen as betrayal or disloyalty. But your choice to live your own story is one that infuriates the tyrant most.

And I think that may be the biggest fault of this fallen, misguided hero... the violence he or she commits in attempting to force one story on all.

As part of our own story and in our own journey, let us be careful in casting people too much in roles they may not want to live out.

Have you been dealing with tyrants, too?

Lessons From A Dairy Farmer

Yesterday I talked to a farmer named Brock.

He grew up in the area, because generations of his family owned a local dairy farm. As we chatted, he greeted people and joked around with them. After each encounter, he told me a tiny piece of their lives... usually about their connection to the farming community.

He explained how difficult it's been to find ways to save his own farm. He hosts events, makes cheese, and used to sell raw milk before regulation made it unprofitable. His brother operates a roadside stand offering fresh produce during the summer and fall. In October, the two of them open up their pumpkin patch to families, and then chop Christmas trees in November and December.

We talked about Carnation Farms, and how sad it was when Nestle bought it more than a decade ago. It was one of my favorite places, mainly because during National Dairy Month they gave away free ice cream. I discovered that my childhood tour guide of the farm had been my new friend.

I've been gone from this community for so long.

When I run to the grocery store, I smear makeup on my face so that if I run into someone from high school I won't wonder if there are pillow creases on my face. When I see someone I knew forever ago, I wonder what they'll say to whom after we part ways.

But I forgot how nice it is to have things in common. To not have to explain my town's name, to know the same places, to share experiences common only to locals.


I realized yesterday that one branch of my family has lived in this area for about 100 years. It stopped me in my tracks. And while I don't know if I'll be here forever, I'm really glad this is where I started.

Thanks, Brock.

A Good Man

A good man died.

He showed up in my life when he showed up for my grandfather’s memorial service in 2005. Despite years of hardship and illness, he came to say goodbye to his best friend… and to make sure I knew my grandpa.

He told me stories; stories that were familiar but not how I’d heard them.

Once, my grandpa told me a story about a man in the concentration camps, who saw his friend selected for the gas chambers.

“He was a good employee and a good friend, so of course the man had to save him,” Grandpa said. “So he took a corpse from the barracks – someone who had died during the night – and put it in the gas chamber. Then he grabbed his friend and took him away. The Nazis counted the bodies. They didn’t care who was actually in there.”

“Your grandpa, he was a good employer and a good friend,” came the new version of the story. “So of course he had to save the man. He was smart, your grandfather. He knew the Nazis would only count bodies.”

Story after story transformed in each new telling. My grandpa was the hero in all of his own stories. His best friend wanted me to know.

He sent me a card when I graduated from college, telling me confidently that his best friend would be proud of me.

He came to my grandmother’s memorial service, and praised me for working on my master’s degree. “You are very smart, like you grandfather. Him,” -- here he gestured toward my then 12-year-old brother -- “He’s a ladies’ man. Also like your grandfather.”

The last time I saw him was this past March at my cousin’s wedding. It was hard for him to speak, and he tired easily. His wife confided that he came mainly to see his best friend’s grandchildren.

We sat down, and he told me more stories. One was about how my grandfather stole his name, but he forgave him. He told me that if I chose to pursue my PhD in New York, I was welcome to stay with him and his wife.

“I wouldn’t want to cause you any trouble!”

He gazed at me for a moment before speaking. “How could I not do something good for my best friend’s granddaughter if I had to the power to do it? What would I say to him? You aren’t trouble. You are Jack’s granddaughter.”

He was a good man who wanted to comfort a grieving grandchild. He was a good friend who wanted stories and a legacy to continue.

You might not notice the difference, but I do. The world is poorer without this man in it.

More Than A Haircut

I did it.

I was so afraid I'd burst into tears and make myself look like a big baby. I mean, it's just a hair cut, right?

Except that for the past several years, that's what people noticed and complimented. Whenever I mentioned the possibility of cutting it, an overwhelming outcry broke out -- sometimes coming from people I barely knew -- saying I should keep my long curly locks.

Sometimes that made me want to chop just to remind everyone who owned this hair, but I never did. I got attached to it, and finally had the princess hair I always wanted.

But I wasn't prepared for the dread I felt when I finally decided it was time to donate. The identity I've built for myself has included long hair for years, and now I was suddenly going to be one of those shoulder-length girls.

There's so many of them.

My friend Renee comforted me on the drive to the salon this morning, reminding me that while my hair might be less eye-catching, I still have my signature big glasses. And while talking to her, it occurred to me that in a very small way, this is probably what my friend Marie meant when she said her identity changed when she lost her hair.

Except for one big difference: cancer stole that from her. I was choosing to give mine to spare an already-hurting person from a tiny portion of that experience.

I stopped whining.
And I experienced joy.Goodbye, hair.

The Joy Of Legacy

Two days ago, I wrote about the legacy left to me by my Grandpa Jack. At the end of the post, I asked how you honor the sacrifices and stories that have put you where you are now.

I've continued to think about the idea, and tried to see how I have succeeded or failed in this. I decided the ideal answer would be to say that I create legacies for other people. But I looked at my bare ring finger, and then down at my flat stomach, and wondered, "How am I investing in other people, in future people, if I don't have a family for whom to sacrifice?"

That really bothered me. It isn't that I want people to know my name after I die -- though that would be nice -- but I want my life to be a transformative power for someone else.

I was sad. I cried a little bit. I called my mom and ate a lot of cookies.

Then I had a student come to me after class, and timidly ask if I could meet with her outside of class. She wanted to talk about some things she was going through, but didn't think her friends had the perspective she needed.

My first reaction was surprise ("Umm, okay. But... why me?"). My second reaction was inward pouting ("It's because she sees how OLD I am!"). The third reaction was an "aha" moment, when I realized that I was being given the opportunity to invest in a life.

In a small way, I was creating a legacy.

My heart was enveloped with joy, the kind that smells like vanilla and cookies and comfort. My life wasn't just a trek to meaninglessness or self-absorption... I had something precious to contribute.

It's almost funny that I haven't made this connection before. I love teaching, and I really do believe that if students pay attention in their Communications classes their lives can be richer for it. But I thought the skills and thought patterns I taught would create transformation... and it isn't just that. It's the way I teach. It's being approachable and caring and flexibly-scheduled.

And it's remembering that legacies don't travel through DNA.

The Weight Of Legacy

The last few days I've been thinking about the people who have contributed to my life.

And on many levels, that means friends, mentors, educators, parents and siblings. But I have been thinking about my grandparents, and specifically my Grandpa Jack.
My grandfather was a Holocaust survivor. The concentration camps didn't only take away his family and friends, but it stole his opportunity for education, the health of a family coffee business, and the community in which the Azous name had existed since Jews were expelled from Spain in 1492.

It would've been easier to die, you know. He watched his mother, his sister, his niece and his nephew forced into the gas chambers. He risked his life by stealing potato peels, eating them so he could stay strong enough to live. And when he was finally liberated by Allied Forces, he returned to a nation that immediately sent him to fight in a civil war.

Grandpa Jack left Greece for the United States as soon as he could, and overcame language barriers, a failed marriage and the challenges facing a single father in 1960s America. He built a business, a family, and a new life. My grandfather's home was a place of joy and food and tradition, where he taught his grandkids by story-telling and through a life well-lived. His smile and laughter filled the space and the hearts of those who spent time there... and when he died the echoes still reverberated.

And while the ending of Grandpa Jack's story seems to show us that all the hardship was worthwhile, he couldn't know that in the concentration camps. He couldn't know that when he looked down at his three young daughters and had to figure out a way to raise them alone. He couldn't know that everything was going to work out when he thought he'd lost one daughter forever.

When I think about my own life, I think about the people who fought so hard to live and create meaning and provide opportunities for me. And I think about the privilege and burden of these legacies, how they force me to live a life of meaning to honor the sacrifices made just so I could exist.

Who has sacrificed for you? And how do you honor the legacy left to you?