We think we know ourselves. All of us. We tell ourselves and our friends how we would react if this or that happened. "I would have punched him," we say. "I would never have lost my temper," we say. "How could [he|she|they|it] have ever behaved that way?"
But we can't really know. And all too often, we aren't right. That's why I was so grateful to hear the story of Daniel Hernandez.
When the shots began that morning, he saw many people lying on the ground, including a young girl. Some were bleeding. Hernandez said he moved from person to person checking pulses.
"First the neck, then the wrist," he said. One man was already dead. Then he saw Giffords. She had fallen and was lying contorted on the sidewalk. She was bleeding.
Not everyone has it in them to be a hero. But those who do, give a wonderful gift to others. They allow them to be heroes too. I am not a hero. I know this to my shame. But my brother is. I was there.
It was a Saturday. We were a block and a half from my house going somewhere. We were stopped three cars back from the intersection when the light changed, and the cars in front of us started to move forward. From the corner of my eye, I saw movement from my right. It was a motorcycle. I remember looking back to the light to assure myself that the light was green going our way. It was. The motorcycle was not slowing down. I'm not sure exactly how to describe this, but it was as though time slowed down. The motorcycle hit the left driver's side door of a car entering the intersection. The two motorcycle riders were catapulted over the top of the car. I can see them in my minds eye like pinwheels flying. They were not wearing helmets. They had on shorts and boots. They were young. Their hair blew in the wind. I did not see them land. I turned my head away.
I told you I am not a hero. I thought I was. I hoped I was. I wanted to be. But there at that intersection, as my brother stopped the car, unbuckled his belt, flung open the door and ran towards the wreck, all I could think of was that I didn't want to see those boys on the pavement, dead.
There is a cop who lived in the neighborhood. His car was in the driveway about two houses further away from the intersection. I took off running to the front door and started banging. There was no answer. I was probably there 30 seconds. Defeated, I turned around and ran to the intersection. My brother was there giving orders.
"You," he said to someone standing nearby. "Go inside and call the ambulance." They skuttled off immediately.
He ordered me to assist the boy with the broken leg. My brother knelt next to the depressed head wound. "Get a blanket," he ordered a woman in a car in the northbound lane. She did, gratefully.
The depressed head wound wasn't making any sense. He didn't know he'd been the driver. He couldn't give us his name. He didn't know what his phone number was. He kept trying to stand up. My brother kept talking to him, kept him down, kept his hand over the wound until a towel or something showed up, and then he used that to perform compression.
The first cop arrived in just a couple of minutes. He told my brother something I couldn't believe at the time. I don't know that I can quote it accurately in any way, but essentially he was warning my brother that the boy he was keeping calm might have AIDs and it was potentially not safe to render assistance with that much blood. I think the cop got on the radio, and perhaps started directing traffic. I do know my brother ignored him, and continued to do what he was doing.
At about that point the boy with the broken leg who had been sitting, holding his knee up told me he had to lay down. I started screaming for a blanket I think. And I use that word with some hesitation. I think maybe shreaking might be more appropriate, though I wanted to think of it as calling. I was kneeling in the middle of the road, the gravel from the asphalt digging into my knees, terrified. Both bones in the boy's leg were broken and I had one hand under his knee and one under his ankle trying not to jostle him or move. Someone else showed up and I think cradled his head in her lap.
The first ambulance showed up, The cop was in his car calling for another or something. My brother did a quick handoff with the ambulance crew and started directing traffic. I didn't quite lose it, but came close.
My brother, at that intersection, on that day was a hero. He kept calm, kept everyone else calm and gave them tasks they were capable of performing to make sure those young, foolish injured boys got the best care they could before they got to the hospital. My brother got his training in the Navy. Daniel apparently got his in high school when he got medical training.
My CPR training, my background in the media, none of that kept me from being a gibbering mess, able only because of my brother's exhortations to do my part. People like Daniel Hernandez and my brother are heroes because in the moment when they are needed, they transcend whatever fears they may have to do what needs to be done.
More than that, they catalyze those of us who aren't as brave to do what we can. And what they are able to do, not all of us can do, whatever we say in the comfort of our homes, while we pound at the keyboard or watch the TV or slug back a beer.
If I ever have need of a hero, I hope there is one at the parking lot or intersection where I find myself. And if you need a hero, I hope there is one there for you, too.