When I think of my hero, I see a strong man that the media loves to hate. His shoulders are pushed back as he stands there with his arms crossed over his chest. His face has been half shaded by a peaked hat for more than fifteen years. He's always had a tough look about him and the wrinkles creased into his face are enough proof of all the things he's witnessed and been through. His eyes are covered by charcoal shaded glasses, although, I know from experience they’re actually a beautiful blue.
My hero wears a tightly pressed uniform with shiny black shoes. A silver star is etched into the left side of his shirt. Small letters are stitched into the piece of material stating, “Mason County Deputy, Terry Vice.” Attached to his belt is among different things is a radio. Rather than call out to him by name, the number sixty-three is used instead.
My hero has been spit on, attacked, called names and worse. Between the radio and multiple TV stations, I'm sure most people believe that blue lives really don't matter. The hashtags that pop up on Twitter and the manipulative posts you've seen on Facebook are no where near the definitions of the man I look up to on a daily basis.
My hero married my mom and adopted me when I turned three years old. He took me as his own and made our little family of two whole. He tucked me in at night and taught me right from wrong. He told me never to go into law enforcement and like any great daughter, I completely ignored his request.
He’s the person you call when you need help and the person I call when I miss home just a little bit too much.
My hero is the same hero that most little kids have when they’re growing up. He’s someone we all want and aspire to be.
My hero is a police officer but he’s also the best thing I could’ve ever asked for.
My hero is my Dad.
