Hoisting and Being Hoisted

As mentioned in an earlier column, I once hoisted my neighbour from the curb—he looked as though he’d just gone twelve rounds with the garbage league. Yesterday, it was my turn. I was crossing the street, minding my own business, when a chorus of “oooohhhh” from across signalled that something had gone awry.

Next thing I knew, I was sprawled on my left side, dazed and wondering which dimension I’d tripped into. Mother Fortune, ever capricious, sent a handsome hero to hoist me up and deliver me into the nearest establishment, where I joined the queue for the puer tea I’d been craving, all the while replaying the incident in my mind.

Earlier, I’d been in a thrift store, where I couldn’t resist (classic me) buying a book of names: names of happenings, objects, places, and people in every language imaginable. Those are the sorts of treasures this girl can’t leave behind.

But back to the matter at hand: one day you hoist, the next you’re hoisted. One moment resembles an uneven boxing match, the next, a prank by a mischievous leprechaun. The common thread? We bipeds are still in the business of heroics, whether we mean to be or not.

And so, to today, the first of May. It took real heroes to win the right to work with dignity and hammer out agreements honing life and labour. These weren’t the heroes of legend but the ones who walked in the masses, hoisting banners and each other, standing up to the machinery of power. Their heroism wasn’t found in grand speeches or statues but in the simple act of showing up, day after day, to demand a fair shake. They were hoisted by solidarity, by the knowledge that their struggle was shared.

But let’s not forget the other kind of heroism, the one conscripted and shipped off to some far-flung corner of the globe to “teach a lesson” in the name of progress or profit. These are the foot soldiers of global wargames, sent to fight battles mapped out in boardrooms and cabinet offices. Their heroism is often invoked by those same leprechauns—those trickster architects of policy and profit who sit snug in their offices, spinning the wheels of economy and war, never getting their shoes dirty. The leprechauns design the games, set the rules, and watch from a safe distance as others pay the price.

It’s a curious thing, this business of hoisting heroism. The ones who do the lifting—whether in protest or combat—rarely get to write the rules. The leprechauns, with their spreadsheets and strategies, are masters at turning heroism into just another resource, another story to sell. Yet, for all their cunning, the real power remains with the masses: the workers who refuse to be ground down, the conscripts who question the game, the everyday people who, after tripping over life’s invisible wires, help each other up and carry on.

So here’s to us stumbling mortals, we Promethean clay-folk, rising and falling, hoisting and being hoisted, making meaning out of missteps and mischief. On this May Day, may we remember that the true heroes are rarely the ones in charge but the ones who show up, stand together, and—despite the leprechauns—keep the world moving forward, one awkward, heroic step at a time.

May Harmony find you,

Irena Phaedra

P.S. Let the leprechauns leverage the Lokis of this world and leave the heroes be.

P.P.S. We can be Heroes
We can be Heroes
We can be Heroes
Just for one day
We can be Heroes