What makes a hero?

Five paragraphs; full sentences, and make sure you’re using HB or 2B Pencil. And check your grammar too, I’m don’t want to fault you for misspelling something.

We live in a day and age of heroes leaving the comic panels for the big screen. We see gods swooping in to save the day, billionaires suiting up and taking matters into their own hands. Their struggles to defeat their foes as they are pushed to the brink of their abilities to save the day.

Save. The. Day.

Three words that describe the ultimate outcome of a hero. But what if there was more to that? Or dare I say it, even less to those three words?

It was only a few months prior in Autumn when I first encountered an incident that changed my life. Tired from a day’s work, the early signs of winter was seeping through the windows of the public bus I was taking home.

Eerily empty, I had gotten used to the fact that life after the pandemic was going to be a lonely one for a while. My friends that lived relatively close by now felt hours away. My family were tired living in a home that felt more like a cage. And being someone that was lost on the path of life before the world was flipped upside down... well, let’s just say it was taxing.

So there I was, bag in lap, watching the abandoned streets that still had yet to restore to its former liveliness.

And that was when I met an old lady on the bus. She slowly came on at the next stop, and without an ounce of fear, sat down just a couple seats down in an empty bus. A packet of cookies held in frail hand as she struggled to open it.

I originally minded my own business, decided it was best to keep to myself. I had heard my friend who was also of Asian descent get thrashed just a few weeks earlier; and while I wasn’t expecting a frail old lady to necessarily go around beating Asian’s, I didn’t want to test my luck if that were the case.

You can tell I’m not the best poker player out there.

Anyway, this old lady was still trying to rip open her cookies at this rate. And eventually, I couldn’t stand it. I was tired from a days work, isolated from most of my close relations. I didn’t want to sit down for the next half hour bus ride listening to a packet of cookies tried to be open.

“Do you want me to open that for you?”

The words already left my mouth before I could stop it. Almost immediately, I wondered if I was being rude; assuming this old lady needed help might have been condescending in some way. What if this old lady had wanted to spend the next half an hour trying to open this packet of cookies?

To my surprise though—actually now that I think about it, it wasn’t really that surprising—she said:

“Thank you,” before handing it over to me.

It takes a couple of seconds for it to process before I take the cookies. And I’m proud to say I did it on the first try.

Seconds later after I hand back the cookie packet, the old lady is enjoying her cookies. She thanks me again, and once again we are left in silence except for the soft humming of the bus on road.

“Are you scared of me?” The old lady suddenly asks.

Of course, I immediately say no. She seemed kind enough, and I was the one that chose to help her out. So it was safe to say I was confused by the question.

“Not of me, silly me. But scared of what I could have been.”

I had no idea. In the end, the effects of racism was something someone experiences rather than the way someone acts. No matter what, there will always be prejudice to anyone and everyone. But it’s never the racists themselves that are the problem, but instead the fact that they are able to get away with it without consequence.

So I look into the old woman’s eyes. And I open my mouth.

“Yes. I am scared of what you could have been. But you’re not, so I’m fine.”

And so she takes that. She nods, tapping a single finger on the railing of the bus. Then she does the most surprising thing I had not expected.

She smiles. And she offers a cookie. “They’re a bit weird tasting. But they’re nice enough.”

I laugh at that and gladly take one. The old lady was right a second time. The cookie did taste pretty off, and to be fair, I had never heard of the brand either. So she and I share stories. I tell her I had no idea what I wanted to do in the future. She doesn’t know how to respond. And we talk till we reach the busway interchange.

As we leave out separate ways, I thank the old lady one last time. In this current time of ours, relating and talking to a kind stranger was something I had needed. Someone that wouldn’t judge me for my nationality. Nor as someone that would criticise my life choices.

So with that in mind, she hands me the rest of the cookies, saying she was full, and hoping that I’ll enjoy them. I thank her once more and leave.

A few minutes later after I finish the cookies, I realised it had expired ages ago, and now it made sense why it tasted weird.

I laugh when I think back to it, and enjoy the fact that my day had been saved by a kind stranger.