I understand. In death, a member of Project Mayhem has a name. His name is Robert Paulson.
Fight Club
Fight Club
It was a day like any other day. Spring on the riverbank in Winnipeg. He spent a lot of time there, homeless. Probably drunk when he saw the guy fall from the Provencher bridge, but he instinctively jumped into the Red River to save him. And, before his life came to a tragic end on the banks of this same river, he repeated the act of courage a year later, dragging a woman from the Red.
Homeless. Alcoholic. Drug addict. Aboriginal. Dirty. Loser.
I could have passed by him and not even noticed he was there. I probably did. Thousands of people did. And, of those who did notice him, few or none would have seen his humanity, just his categorization under any one of a number of labels.
His name was Faron Hall.
We all have names. Names that identify us. Names that mark us. Names that differentiate us from the other seven billion people on this planet. And connected to our names are stories of heroics and villainy. For all of us.
I stood in front of a group of grade 11 students talking about writing personal stories and, knowing they had read at least the start of my book, asked, “What did you think of it?”
The standard answers were given. “You are optimistic.” “You are courageous.” “You are not worried about life.”
And then the one that struck me. “You give your heroes names.”
I had never recognized that before. This happens more often than you might think: that someone points out something about my book that I myself have never noticed, often never intended, at least consciously. From time to time, I too discover a new aspect of my book, such as when it revealed the importance of community to me.
I paused. And replied, “Tell me more about what you saw.”
“Well, your heroes have names and the other people do not.”
My heroes have names. In the preface to What I Learned from Cancer, I wrote:
Homeless. Alcoholic. Drug addict. Aboriginal. Dirty. Loser.
I could have passed by him and not even noticed he was there. I probably did. Thousands of people did. And, of those who did notice him, few or none would have seen his humanity, just his categorization under any one of a number of labels.
His name was Faron Hall.
We all have names. Names that identify us. Names that mark us. Names that differentiate us from the other seven billion people on this planet. And connected to our names are stories of heroics and villainy. For all of us.
I stood in front of a group of grade 11 students talking about writing personal stories and, knowing they had read at least the start of my book, asked, “What did you think of it?”
The standard answers were given. “You are optimistic.” “You are courageous.” “You are not worried about life.”
And then the one that struck me. “You give your heroes names.”
I had never recognized that before. This happens more often than you might think: that someone points out something about my book that I myself have never noticed, often never intended, at least consciously. From time to time, I too discover a new aspect of my book, such as when it revealed the importance of community to me.
I paused. And replied, “Tell me more about what you saw.”
“Well, your heroes have names and the other people do not.”
My heroes have names. In the preface to What I Learned from Cancer, I wrote:
I have tried to disguise some of the players in this narrative, particularly where the story has the potential to hurt or embarrass. There were other characters for whom I made no such attempt, especially when I wanted to broadcast the depth of gratitude that I have towards them, a gratitude I feel a need to share publicly. I hope these benefactors will grant me this indulgence and forgive me for making them look so good—yet no better than they truly are.
We all have heroes in our lives. Of course, not all of them rush in to the rescue when we are in dire distress. Not all of them repair our medical tragedies. Some of them just clothe us and feed us. Some take us to school. Some spend their days teaching us, protecting us, healing us, and making us feel loved. Our heroes deserve to be named. Many do not seek this, but all deserve it.
It is perhaps the fact that, in the end, I spent my time writing a book just so I could name my heroes. The people who changed my story, the people who formed my story, the people without whom my story would have been radically different than it was.
His name was Joe Pfeifer. His name was Cliff Yaffe. His name was Rob James. Her name was Debra Maione. And these are but a few of the people in my story who deserve to have their names named. For I could not pass any of them without speaking their names aloud.
It is perhaps the fact that, in the end, I spent my time writing a book just so I could name my heroes. The people who changed my story, the people who formed my story, the people without whom my story would have been radically different than it was.
His name was Joe Pfeifer. His name was Cliff Yaffe. His name was Rob James. Her name was Debra Maione. And these are but a few of the people in my story who deserve to have their names named. For I could not pass any of them without speaking their names aloud.
Dennis Maione is an author, speaker, and teacher from Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada. He has been on a 20+ year journey through 2 bouts with colorectal cancer, in large part due to the presence of a Lynch Syndrome mutation in his genes. He speaks and writes about his cancer journey, his insights into the medical system, and finding heroes and villains in the unlikeliest of places.
His latest book, What I Learned from Cancer, is available in paper and electronic form at http://dennismaione.com/store
His latest book, What I Learned from Cancer, is available in paper and electronic form at http://dennismaione.com/store
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