#realheroes

 The Photo That Stopped Time — and Saved a Life In 1967, photographer Rocco Morabito captured one of the most powerful moments ever caught on film. A utility worker, Randall G. Champion, had just brushed against a high-voltage line and collapsed — hanging lifeless in his safety harness, 30 feet above the ground. His co-worker, J.D. Thompson, didn’t hesitate. He climbed the pole, wrapped one arm around Randall’s body, and pressed his mouth to his — delivering life-saving breaths in mid-air. No equipment. No time. Just pure human instinct.

Moments later, Randall regained a pulse. The photograph became known as “The Kiss of Life,” a reminder that sometimes a single breath, a single act, a single friend — can pull someone back from the edge. A split second of courage. A life restored. A moment the world will never forget.

This weekend saw us lose a hero. Chadwick Boseman, King T’Challa, the Black Panther. He was many other things as well, a son, a husband, a teacher, a friend, but to most of us he will always be the Black Panther. It is both a compliment and a slight to boil a person down to one singular thing, but in truth, this is what makes greatness. Michael Jordan is basketball. Jackie Robinson is the first black man to play in Major League Baseball. Martin Luther King IS freedom. 

I knew little of Chadwick Boseman before seeing him in the Black Panther. And for me seeing him in that movie was watching someone fully formed. He was all the things we imagine a hero to be, but he was one thing most important of all. He was a black man.

I’m not a black man. I’m a Mexican man born in San Antonio, Texas to two young Mexican parents. I grew up in a divorced household that was nevertheless filled with love. I was surrounded by many of my own people, but at the same time lost to a large part of my culture. Since we lived in America we spoke little Spanish in my house and thus I grew up not knowing my native language. This invariably separated me from my Spanish speaking relatives and left me far away from my culture. A world that served as a foster culture for me was comic books. As an only child growing up alone while my mother worked, comic books were my babysitter, my school and my religion all in one. I read as Spider-Man found the strength within himself to be a great hero. I read furiously as the Hulk battled his inner demons as much as any other bad guy and as Captain America battled for what it meant to be an American. And in that world too was the Black Panther.

The Black Panther was a created by two comic greats, Stan Lee and Jack “The King” Kirby. It’s fitting that one king beget another. Kirby was a thunderbolt of energy and imagination and The Black Panther was just one of his many unconventional creations. The important thing and the thing that made T’challa such a pivotal character is that he was never a singular hero. He was always associated with his kingdom, the fictional land of Wakanda. This land was beautiful beyond measure, it was filled with technology far ahead that of the current world and it was ruled by a noble black man that could match wits with the smartest Marvel heroes and match muscle with the most powerful of them. Kirby and Lee realized even back then that the African people, culture and history was worthy of exploration and full of thrill and wonderment. There may be some argument as to the plunder of black culture by two white men, but for now maybe we can believe that this culture was seen by Kirby and Lee as something deserving of more respect and affirmation. And indeed, for many of us, black, white and everything in between and fictional it may have been, the Black Panther was our first vivid glimpse into the greatness of Black Culture.

Mothers are like glue. Even when you can’t see them, they’re still holding the family together.