2021-04-10
What stories do we tell ourselves, and how do they shape us? I say us, but it’s as absurd to think I can speak for others as it is to think that my experiences are uniquely mine. Let me try again. What stories do I tell myself, and how do they shape me? Maybe these same stories shape you. Maybe mine will.
The world that I see is terrifying. It is cruel, dangerous, and heartbreaking. It is endless. When I was a child, I watched Captain Planet — a cartoon about teens using the elements to fight caricatures of the most cruel people you could people you could imagine. He taught me to recycle, and turn off the tap while I brushed my teeth. The biggest thing he taught me though, in hindsight, was there is no caricature. The villains who polluted and destroyed for the sake of it were real, and we don’t have five children with magic rings to save us.
I love superheroes. Normal people, blessed with gifts beyond comprehension, take it upon themselves to right the wrongs of the world. To protect the innocent. My favorite is Spider-Man, a nerdy Jewish-ish kid who solves problems as much with his brain as with his superpowers. Who is terrified constantly and hides behind false bravado and quips as he does the impossible. I wonder why. (Very much aside: Miles Morales is a blessing and as much my Spider-Man as Peter Parker.).
I use these stories because people much smarter than me said them first. I think by using their words I can steal some of their glamour and apply it to myself. That was my biggest takeaway from Oscar Wilde’s stories, you know: quote other stories constantly to sound smart. There’s a Star Trek episode where this happens, people speak only in allusions and memes. I never saw it, I’m not really a Star Trek fan. I feel like Bumblebee — the giant robot that can turn into a car whose ability to speak for himself is so damaged all he can do is use other’s words.
The story I tell about myself was so frequently one of heroism. The lone warrior, standing against a relentless onslaught of evil. I aligned myself with the Knight Errant. The Gunslinger. The Batman. Alone, unyielding, and growing weary of the evil and apathy around me. The world is a scary place and I am so afraid of being let down by others less committed to justice — or whose justice differs from mine — that I limit my interactions with the people in it. I would view them as helpless children in need of my shield or monsters in need of my sword. The hubris. Like every other white man before me, I saw myself as Don Quixote, tilting at windmills. And like every white man before me, I thought that was good.
The hero inspires, reminds us — or at least me — that you can fight. That no matter how awful things are, it only takes one person to stand up for what’s good and right. But the myth of the hero is poison, too. It’s the foundation of tyranny and fascism. And it’s a lie. One person cannot beat all the evil in the world.
Captain Planet wasn’t really about Captain Planet fighting pollution. The actual name of the show was “Captain Planet and The Planeteers.” They were the real protagonists. They represented all of us, coming together, and by our powers combined creating something better than the sum of its parts. Like every kid though I thought that Ma-Ti’s power of “heart” was the worst. I wanted to control fire, or wind. I wanted to be strong.
I was inspired to write this by many, many people. But most impactfully Carlos Maza’s video “How To Be Hopeless”, a callout post written for exactly me whether he knew it or not. I was actively formulating a response, this response, as I watched it. Over the last year, as I’ve examined my heroic narrative, reconciling the tension of this belief that it’s up to me — and me alone — to right the wrongs of the world with the belief that we’re all equal and deserve dignity and respect. I have not died an ego death yet, but think I can let my ego rest. I can reach out to humans and find the joy in this world that is filled with despair and horror, at least sometimes.
Camus isn’t the only one who saw the pointless horror of existence and insists on living regardless. Inscribed in my mind is the hebrew phrase (transliterated because I am a bad developer too lazy to wrestle with Right-to-Left rendering. And because I want you to hear the poetry): Kol ha’olam kulo gesher tzar me’od; vaha’ikar lo lefached klal. “The whole entire world is a very narrow bridge; the most important thing is to not be afraid.”
I am afraid. Of the end of the world. Of the plagues of the body and the plagues of the soul. I am afraid of being seen by my fellow humans. I am afraid of never being acknowledged. I am afraid of loss, grief, and disappointment. I am afraid of joy.
The stories we tell ourselves shape us. In my story, I take another step.