Joe stood in front of the small camera, not like a celebrity, but like a man who had something on his mind.
“Listen,” he said. “I come from a long line of peasants. Farmers, workers, people who actually built the world with their hands. No kings. No queens. Just people who worked.”
He looked straight into the lens.
“And to all the fans who treat Nelly Furtado like some kind of goddess… I knew her before all that. I was her altar boy at Catholic confirmation. Back when we were just kids from working families.”
Joe shook his head slightly.
“She’s not a queen. She’s not a goddess. She’s a peasant’s daughter like the rest of us.”
He leaned back in his chair.
“The problem is people think the lifestyles of the rich and famous are the answer. Big houses, fame, millions of followers. But that stuff doesn’t make you better than the garbage man, the construction worker, or the nurse working a night shift.”
Joe pointed his finger at the camera.
“You know what the real hero is? A working class hero. The guy who shows up every morning and does the job that keeps the world running.”
He smiled faintly and added:
“Even John Lennon said it best — a working class hero is something to be.”
Joe shrugged.
“So remember where you come from. Because peasants built the world long before celebrities ever showed up.”
