proust project: day seven

Question Seven: Who is your hero in real life? Who is your hero in fiction?

I don’t have one. I don’t know how to answer the question. I can list qualities I admire - courage, self-assuredness, compassion and empathy, wit… the list goes on. But these are qualities everyone admires in some capacity. So.

I guess the next thing to do is pick a person who embodies said qualities. Thinking. There are far too many people to pick. Should I narrow it down to a professional field? Or what? What do you want from me?

It’s just arbitrary and choosing feels cheap. I’m not landing on one specific individual - real or fictional - who I can consider the hero, idol, or ideal, of my life. My mom, sure. Absolutely. Because she’s my mom and she physically made me who I am, so of course. Of course. 

I asked her, my mom, who my hero was as a child and she very quickly named my third grade teacher. A nice sentiment - I loved her so much my eight year old self cried for hours on the last day of class - but I still had to ask why. She suggested it was because she treated her students like actual human beings and truly cared about our interests. Naturally, this is wonderful for any teacher of young children. But heroic? 

What is a hero?

Captain America? I’m pretty sure Marvel has been asking this question for a millennium now. If their answer is limited to “someone who does the right thing” … I’d argue otherwise.

Case in point: Rachel Berry was my fictional hero for a time. By that I mean I wanted to be her. She was immensely talented in the same way I fancied myself in high school. Driven and loved (if not envied) and self-aware and also you could never not look when she walked into a room. Does wanting to be someone make them your hero? Somehow I am not so sure. 

My hero is probably out there somewhere - yet unknown. Someone so darn innocuous. Wholly pedestrian. They have nothing to do with me. Me, nothing to them. Just someone out there. Living their life. Doing good by others. Finding the good for themselves. Growing up and doing the best they can in the same way as I. Admitting mistakes and learning to apologize. All the stuff that builds a life, a person, and makes things flow. It’s literally the simple things. The mundane. Those everyday experiences and encounters that are also the hardest. You can write a groundbreaking novel and have toxic social skills. You can invent a life-saving vaccine and still act like a moron around your partner. You can run a charity and still be an asshole.

I guess, paradoxically, the big stuff doesn't mean much to me in the grand scheme of things. That kind of heroism doesn’t speak to me personally. Amazing accomplishments, yes. Certainly.

But I’m just a person. And right now I’m not really trying to write a book or change the world. I just want to make the most of each day and love the people in my life the way they deserve. That’s a big feat.