Heroics

I’m not really one for hero worship - I don’t idolise one person forsaking all others.

When I was younger, posters of Take That and other pop idols jostled for space with pictures of Downlands Cancara and the Athena man. No one stood out. As I grew older, childish images gave way to photos of friends, families, places. These, in turn, gave way to “proper” art. But still, no theme. No constant.

There are plenty of people I admire for many different reasons. Personal reasons, political reasons, social reasons. There are some whom I admire simply for small things like something they’ve said or somewhere they’ve been. Some have my admiration for things they’ve done or things they’ve stood for. My life is a colourful patchwork of different people I look up to, like and respect.

But I don’t really have one “hero” and I certainly can’t think of anyone who’s let me down to the extent that I’d feel slighted enough to write about it. Maybe that’s because I don’t allow people to let me down. Or rather, if they do let me down, I forgive them for it. Or, even more alternatively, the people I admire just aren’t the kind of people who would let their friends down. Maybe.

I suppose I’m one of the few, the happy few*. Trashy magazines read hidden in the covers of Private Eye tell me that people are let down by their heroes, their loved ones, their friends the whole time. Mothers sleeping with boyfriends, fathers abandoning children, spouses going to prison, friends stealing boyfriends, children going off the rails, drugs destroying households.

And yet still, none of these tragedies have touched my life. Those people I hold up above all else, my family, my friends, have never given me the opportunity to be disappointed or let down.

Lucky? Or spoilt? 

Is it normal to have such an easy path through life? Does it make me somehow less well rounded not to have been touched by the hardships others have faced? Does it give me no right to empathise – no, worse than that, can I even begin to empathise? And does it matter? Should I care?

The fact that there is an entire genre dedicated to “tragic life stories” in bookshops should give me a clue. People lap this stuff up. Not only does having some kind of “story” mean that they feel more interesting but more than that, they love it when someone is worse off than they are. They get to feel morally superior and relish their life, glossing over the bits that make it shit. Similarly, those who haven’t suffered aren’t really real people, are they? If they haven’t suffered then they must have led some strange cosseted life with no experience.

Which is why I don’t really talk about it. I don’t talk about the fact that I have a happy life, and a happy upbringing, where I have been safe, loved and protected. Where people have supported me and comforted me. Where they have laughed with me and shared my tears.

It all seems a bit… normal.

* Apologies Mr S, just thought I’d take liberties with one of your most amazing speeches.

This post is part of Hope’s 30 days of truth series.

Part 14: A hero that has let you down.

You can see all previous posts here.