The Language of Heroism

Harry Zuckerman was a big part of my life growing up. He drove car pool to Sunday School and had been my dad’s best friend in law school. Harry married LaVona in late December 1954, two weeks after my mom and dad got hitched. “For tax purposes,” they said. The joke was that by getting married late in the year they could claim deductions on their 1040s. Even as a child I knew that both couples were, in my dad’s phrase, “deeply and madly” in love.

Harry never talked about his experiences overseas. “Everyone has World War Two stories” he said. Actually, I wasn’t so sure. Certainly, some number of people had parachuted into occupied France with the 82^ndAirborne, but not everyone surely. Harry’s modesty and protestations to the contrary notwithstanding, it still sounded like extraordinary heroism.

I got stories about Harry from my dad: Harry boxing Bantam-weight in Brooklyn (did they even wear gloves in those days?); Harry eking out an uncertain living from 70-hour weeks with a push cart during the depression; Harry running six miles in 36 minutes. In full combat gear. And then that bit about jumping out of a perfectly good airplane through a hail of bullets into a country crawling with people who were more than willing to kill you with a bayonet.

A few months before he enlisted, Harry determined that it would be to his advantage to speak German. So he learned German. He already knew Yiddish so maybe German wasn’t that much of a stretch. He also learned French. Next time you’re arguing with your child trying to convince him to memorize ten Spanish vocabulary words for the quiz tomorrow, think about a man learning two languages fluently in a matter of months on the off chance that he would need them when he got shipped overseas.

Through some unrecorded acts of heroism on the part of some boys who didn’t come home, Harry got a “battlefield promotion.” That is to say, all the officers above him in rank were killed, so he became a lieutenant. In charge of hundreds of prisoners of war, Harry’s facility in German came in handy just as he has predicted. “Put your weapons over there” he ordered.

“Ah, I can tell from you accent that you are from Dusseldorf” said the commanding officer of the captured forces. Harry felt no obligation to point out that Dusseldorf was some distance–both geographically and metaphorically–from a push cart in Brooklyn.

Just as everyone had a WWII story when I was growing up, today everyone has a story like the following: Lucius refuses to have dinner with the family. He eats in his room by himself while playing video games and he won’t eat anything unless we get him pizza with pepperoni and pineapple from that Italian place half way across town. We got him a limo for his prom but he doesn’t seem to be the least bit appreciative and we are concerned that his pot use is increasing.

This narrative may be even farther from both Depression-era Brooklyn and occupied France.

I am not arguing that there are any salutary effects to watching your buddies be slaughtered by machine gun fire. I am hardly recommending that your children need to starve in order to appreciate healthy food.

I am pointing out that no child ever in the history of the world was born with the money, the moral authority, or the innate desire to buy a PlayStation, to insist on certain menus, to be thoroughly disconnected from his family. If a child in your home is having his brain sucked dry hour after hour by violent video games rather than learning something from reading a book, hanging out with his parents, learning a language, or interacting with other members of his species, it is because YOU brought the enormous turd into your house and allowed these borderline anti-social behaviors. Your kid doesn’t have any money, for goodness sake; he’s a kid. You bought the thing. You allow the outrage. Of course he’s going to become addicted to violent video games if you allow him to. You might as well just buy him heroin and teach him how to use the needle.

But I digress.

Why are you allowing your child to eat pineapple and pepperoni pizza in his room rather than engaging in conversation and shared chores with his family? Where did these behaviors come from?

Too much leniency when the children were younger? Too much control? Were your expectations too high, not high enough? Could you have loved your children unconditionally? Should you have taken a day off from work to take your kids on a hike? Are you too invested in having your kid like you? Are you trying to achieve “peace in our time” in your home? Are you scared of a little conflict?

Speaking of WWII, those of you who know the least little bit about Chamberlain’s visit to Hitler in 1939 will appreciate the irony of the phrase “peace in our time”. As to WHY you feel that it is critical that your children like you to the point that you capitulate and buy them violent video games, I would not presume to say.

I would suggest that a sense of shared purpose is what helps to shape heroes. If jumping out of an airplane into occupied France isn’t on the syllabus, at least joining the family for a meal should be.

Parents have more influence on their children than they can possibly imagine. Using that influence for good is your sacred duty. You can lay the groundwork for bringing up a hero as easily as you can pave the way for a isolating addict.

Let’s all agree to take our best shot.