Why heroes matter
As I read through these blog posts I've written about heroes and pop culture, and try to sketch out that weird place they exist in the collective consciousness and in the context of contemporary life, I find myself wondering why I'm bothering. Is it purely an intellectual exercise, a sort of rubble clearing just to get this garbage out of my head? Certainly, it's been clear to me that, on some level, it matters to me, that I have some level of emotional investment in the concept. And while I'm fairly certain I've always had a handle on the why of that, sometimes things come across my screen that put it into relief, in this case, two articles that couldn't be more different from one another: Worcester Magazine's look at "Hometown Heroes," and SF Weekly's profile of "Killer Groupie Samantha Spiegel." The first is a charming, almost folksy story about ordinary people who work to make their home a better place to live, the second is about a young woman with a possibly pathological attraction to serial killers, to whom she writes letters.
And there, in that weird polarity, in the small acts of decency and the horrifying, seductive allure of actual evil, is the space where most of us live. We pass each other on the streets, sit across offices from one another, and never know who among us volunteers at a local food pantry, or coaches midnight basketball leagues, or, well, has a murderer for a pen pal. We're all this ridiculous amalgamation of light and darkness, violent and altruistic impulses pulsing underneath our skin. And each time we look out at the world, we make a thousand small decisions as to how we'll face the omnipresent shadows. And sometimes we cower, and that's understandable. And sometimes we surrender, and that, too, may be understandable. And once in a while ... once in a while someone stops and offers out a hand to help someone else stumble through the dark. And other times, someone goes further, actually putting their lives on the line to save others. It happens every day, and yet it still seems the rarest, most incredible thing in the world.
Make no mistake, I'm not someone someone who underestimates the darkness. If anything, it's been a constant presence in my life. My father was murdered when I was two years old -- an event I've written about repeatedly -- and that awareness of violence and loss has shaped my entire life. But even that has hardly been the only example. I read that SF Weekly article, and remember that I know someone who lost someone to the Night Stalker, one of those people to whom that girl writes letters, and I shake a little bit. Every time I see some reference to 9-11, I can't help but think I knew people who lost people there, and something inside my chest sinks. I read accounts about crime in the city in the newspaper, and remember that I saw someone get shot on Chandler Street last year -- an event so bizarre and incongruous that I blocked it out of my head until the next day, convinced myself I hadn't seen what I saw, until I read the newspaper the next day and could no longer sustain the denial. The policeman I spoke to said that's actually not that uncommon a reaction, but even now, I still shudder with embarrassment and shame that I could so thoroughly deny that something like that was happening. I think I expected better of myself. Turns out, I was simply human. It's funny, if not surprising, that I've avoided writing about that incident until now.
Sometimes we run from the shadows, and maybe that's a sane response. All my life, I've taken solace in fictional heroes to help me shape the man I wanted to be, beginning very early, learning how to read on Spider-Man comics. And I know that I, myself, am not a hero. I'm a relatively mild writer and pacifist, who writes about culture and politics, who composes poems and short stories. And sometimes those writings might make a difference in someone's life. I wouldn't know. I hope so, but that's not why I write them. I write them because I have to. There's nothing heroic in that. And sometimes I'm capable of kindness and empathy, and sometimes I'm snippy and haughty, and Lord knows I've hurt people in all the ways that normal people hurt each other every day of the week.
But I want to be better. Always, always, always. I want to be better than I am.
And there, in that weird polarity, in the small acts of decency and the horrifying, seductive allure of actual evil, is the space where most of us live. We pass each other on the streets, sit across offices from one another, and never know who among us volunteers at a local food pantry, or coaches midnight basketball leagues, or, well, has a murderer for a pen pal. We're all this ridiculous amalgamation of light and darkness, violent and altruistic impulses pulsing underneath our skin. And each time we look out at the world, we make a thousand small decisions as to how we'll face the omnipresent shadows. And sometimes we cower, and that's understandable. And sometimes we surrender, and that, too, may be understandable. And once in a while ... once in a while someone stops and offers out a hand to help someone else stumble through the dark. And other times, someone goes further, actually putting their lives on the line to save others. It happens every day, and yet it still seems the rarest, most incredible thing in the world.
Make no mistake, I'm not someone someone who underestimates the darkness. If anything, it's been a constant presence in my life. My father was murdered when I was two years old -- an event I've written about repeatedly -- and that awareness of violence and loss has shaped my entire life. But even that has hardly been the only example. I read that SF Weekly article, and remember that I know someone who lost someone to the Night Stalker, one of those people to whom that girl writes letters, and I shake a little bit. Every time I see some reference to 9-11, I can't help but think I knew people who lost people there, and something inside my chest sinks. I read accounts about crime in the city in the newspaper, and remember that I saw someone get shot on Chandler Street last year -- an event so bizarre and incongruous that I blocked it out of my head until the next day, convinced myself I hadn't seen what I saw, until I read the newspaper the next day and could no longer sustain the denial. The policeman I spoke to said that's actually not that uncommon a reaction, but even now, I still shudder with embarrassment and shame that I could so thoroughly deny that something like that was happening. I think I expected better of myself. Turns out, I was simply human. It's funny, if not surprising, that I've avoided writing about that incident until now.
Sometimes we run from the shadows, and maybe that's a sane response. All my life, I've taken solace in fictional heroes to help me shape the man I wanted to be, beginning very early, learning how to read on Spider-Man comics. And I know that I, myself, am not a hero. I'm a relatively mild writer and pacifist, who writes about culture and politics, who composes poems and short stories. And sometimes those writings might make a difference in someone's life. I wouldn't know. I hope so, but that's not why I write them. I write them because I have to. There's nothing heroic in that. And sometimes I'm capable of kindness and empathy, and sometimes I'm snippy and haughty, and Lord knows I've hurt people in all the ways that normal people hurt each other every day of the week.
But I want to be better. Always, always, always. I want to be better than I am.
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