Since we are in the zeitgeist of giving “that kind” names, I thought it be important to point out that we categorically have given names to people who exhibit negative behaviors. Understandable and quiet entertaining, really, in that such relatable people we’ve met, have seen, or know, allow us some explanation of why they are- they just are. You know, a Karen. That simplification of such traits and characteristics is actually quite a relief- comforting to know others out there… understand.
I will be the first to admit, perhaps, that I have had a few “Karen” moments in my life. Forgive me. I knew no better. Whoever you are, however many of you, that I have afflicted with my moments of grandeur, I ask your grace.
In repentance, I move toward breaking away from this global name-calling, however, by ironically joining the naming club, to pull back and go the other direction. Allow me to enter my Jedi Knight force of good to introduce to you, Victor. I am going to use my belief of withholding Jedi Knight strength to share with you a recollection I am allowing my heart and mind to resurface for this mere introductory.
I can still see myself walking down the church cathedral steps. Mass had just ended. I was walking out with Papa. I was aware of some who would be outside, on the steps, asking for alms. I remember no one else that day, but two: a boy about my age at that time standing next to an older woman whom I assumed was his grandmother as she looked much older to be the boy’s mother.
I recall the young boy giving me a smile and I hope to have given one back. However, I was quietly distracted by what he was holding up- the woman’s left arm. My eyes followed the arms to the hands which held her palms up. As I continued to walk down, closer to what I thought I had noticed, I remained quiet as my eyes again confirmed- the lady had no fingers. In fact, I could see that both of her hands had no fingers at all as she held out her hands. As I was nearing down the steps further to where I could hear her voice, I found myself not being able to understand what she was muffling. I quickly looked at her lips, thinking to sound out her words and it was then that I discovered, as sound came out of her mouth- she had no tongue.
We were at the bottom of the steps, awaiting transportation when I saw the lady and the boy one more time. They were now at the bottom of the church, to the alley-side, counting together what change they had gathered from passersby. As I politely continued to watch the two within my peripheral view, while holding Papa’s hand, I saw the boy guiding the woman as they began to walk toward the back of the church. It struck to my attention that the boy was taller than the woman. It was then my eyes came to further understand that the woman had no legs – she was moving about on stubs, her knees wrapped in worn out sackcloth.
Papa must have seen my eyes follow the young boy and woman. I must have asked Papa to explain or rather that he wanted me to understand my quiet thoughts because he told me what most likely happened to the woman- she was a victim and the aftermath of war, where some caught had unfortunately suffered severe cruelty. I recall researching this on my own as I got older when the World-Wide-Web began to take existence along with some books I perused to get to the matter. Not only did I discover this to be true, but I came across other ways prisoners or victims of war were t— treated.
Though a victim of senseless cruelty, that woman was a Victor to me. No fingers, no tongue, no legs, and yet, she managed to smile at me with her eyes. With no fingers to ever touch with, no tongue to ever speak with, no legs to ever walk with again, she smiled. While other real victims can heal from their wounds and scars, that woman not only wakes up to her nightmare each day, but must face the world with endless judgment for the rest of her life. Without fingers, a tongue, and legs, she speaks her story before the very eyes of all those who look upon her or pass her by. Perhaps while others countlessly may have already thought that her life no longer had worth, she found purpose. She carried on. And that smile she had? The boy next to her held the same. As one of my few greatest historical figures once said, “Smile. It’s catchy.” That woman held the strength and thus power to show resilience in not only her smile, but the boy’s as well. My Victor.
So, while the Karens continue to marvel at the world with all their objections along with Ken and the rest of the “because I can” crew, I’m going to stick with acknowledging the Victors of this world.
victor noun
- a person who defeats an enemy or opponent in a battle, game, or other competition.
If you’ve ever been a victim of what should be unheard of, senseless crime, cruelty, or actions taken upon you, and still you choose to live each day, giving of you what you can, embracing life, you are a Victor. You show those around you that while the enemy may have wanted you as defeated or dead, you are alive. You overcame the impossible. You are a Victor. I see you.
