Hundreds and hundreds of small boats pulled by countless pickups and SUVs from across the South are headed for Houston. Almost all of them driven by men. Theyâre using their own property, sacrificing their own time, spending their own money, and risking their own lives for one reason: to help total strangers in desperate need.
Most of them are by themselves. Most are dressed like the redneck duck hunters and bass fisherman they are. Many are veterans. Most are wearing well-used gimme-hats, t-shirts, and jeans; and thereâs a preponderance of camo. Most are probably gun owners, and most probably voted for Trump.
These are the people the Left loves to hate, the ones Maddow mocks. The ones Maher and Olbermann just *know* theyâre so much better than.
These are The Quiet Ones. They donât wear masks and tear down statues. They donât, as a rule, march and demonstrate. And most have probably never been in a Whole Foods.
But theyâll spend the next several days wading in cold, dirty water; dodging gators and water moccasins and fire ants; eating whatever meager rations are available; and sleeping wherever they can in dirty, damp clothes. Their reward is the tears and the hugs and the smiles from the terrified people they help. Theyâll deliver one boatload, and then go back for more.
When disaster strikes, itâs what men do. Real men. Heroic men. American men. And then theyâll knock back a few shots, or a few beers with like-minded men theyâve never met before, and talk about fish, or ten-point bucks, or the benefits of hollow-point ammo, or their F-150.
And the next time they hear someone talk about âthe patriarchyâ, or âmale privilegeâ, theyâll snort, turn off the TV and go to bed.
In the meantime, theyâll likely be up again before dawn. To do it again. Until the helpless are rescued. And the workâs done.
Theyâre unlikely to be reimbursed. There wonât be medals. They wonât care. Theyâre heroes. And itâs what heroes do.
viaâTodd McLaren
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