Eroica

*Disclaimer: Despite suggestions from like-minded individuals on the title of this essay being misread as “Erotica,” I’ve decided use it anyway, knowing full well the ramifications that will likely ensue. Good day.

I have a borderline unhealthy addiction to a television show. It’s called Heroes, and it is the embodiment of a very applicable adjective: phenomenal. The show bases around a group of supernaturally empowered humans who are currently in the thick of their second mission to save New York and, thus, the world. At  first glance or a quick reading of its overview, one could assume that it is nothing more than a serial drama version of X-Men. Not true. There are no costumes or capes or handicapped professors. No one is referred to as a mutant and everyone is fully clothed and very much un-blue. What makes Heroes so phenomenal is its ability to make the audience believe that these people are out there somewhere, just like you and I, living ordinary lives, working ordinary jobs, and saving the world on top of it all. After the eight o’clock hour is over on Monday night I do two things: 1) Blink for the first time in 60 minutes, and 2) Feel completely disconnected from their reality and forced back into my very un-super life with the burning thought, “Why can’t this all be real.”

My entire life I’ve wanted to become a hero when I grow up. There was this lake behind the house I used to live in, and I would go swimming in it and pretend I found sunken treasure. Also, I did this thing where I would get under the sheets of my bed and lay completely still, so as not to let the T-Rex in my room know I was there, having learned from Jurassic Park that their vision is mostly based on movement . Then, I would throw back the covers and unload a countless number of imaginary bullets into Old Rexy, thus saving the tiny town he would have devoured had I not held completely still under those Mickey Mouse Club sheets. I remember I would spend hours in my driveway shooting hoops over imaginary Shaquille O’Neals and Minute Bolls until the summer afternoons faded into fall evenings when it became too cold and got dark too early for such acts of sheer athleticism. I would vocalize the overly excited commentator and repeat the same jump shots until I finally excecuted that perfect buzzer beater, then I would  raise my hands in the air, triumphant, thanking all the squirrels and birds and nosy neighbors for supporting my illustriously perfect career. I always sucked as basketball in real life.

I’ve been thinking a lot about heroism these days. I’ve been trying to imagine what it looks like. It dawned on me recently that of the greatest acts of heroism in history, the hero’s intent was never to be remembered or immortalized in any way. Every great hero in history has been labeled as such because of his selflessness.

The truly beautiful moment in Heroes occurs in the season finale. The character who has been set up to be the most arrogant, self-centered, most like-me person in the show turns out to be the true hero. He saves the world by facing what he knew was death, and he did so out of love.

When we start to view heroics as selfless acts of love we blur that line between the indestructible wonder girl and the typical high school cheerleader. We won’t be able to tell the difference between the teleporting sword smith who can manipulate time and space and just some computer geek who is overly excited by Manga.

It is only when we stop desiring to save the world and start taking action to see the world changed that we can truly be called honest-to-God heroes - living ordinary lives, working ordinary jobs, and saving the world on top of it all.