Heroes

Why does the story teller need to take the hero into dark ways alone? When we get to the final gunfight, how come it’s the hero standing there: in outer space, in a dusty Western street, at one end of a shotgun, or one end of a classroom, a board room, a computer terminal, while the flickering numbers count down toward an explosion? Why are the townspeople watching from inside the saloon, the crew waiting back at the spaceship? Why did everyone else go home?
When his one-on-one encounter arrives, whether it’s with the villain, technology, Nature, or himself, the hero’s complete character, his history, his ethics, and his future are all being called into account. If there were others involved in this ultimate confrontation, we would not see the hero’s character revealed (not meant to be a pun). The fame or blame would be diluted. So would the weight and consequences of his choices.
When our character stands alone, he becomes universal, and archetypal. He drops societal labels to step outside time. A man who follows his truth is as valid in ancient Greece as he is in 1938 Poland or 2008 America. His neighbors may have judged him: simple, rigid, nerd, but in those accountable moments, he is beyond judgment. It’s his ethics and morals that drive his actions, not what his neighbors thought of his clothing style. Once he has completed his journey, faced the test, then the townspeople crowd around to congratulate (and temporarily suspend fashion judgment). During the test, they are absent.
Why does the hero in just about every story need to face an ultimate danger alone? So we can recognize the hero qualities. So we have a proven hero. What makes a hero? In a perfectly circular reasoning: Someone willing to go out alone. Whatever other characteristics the writer has needed for this particular story and this particular hero - honestly, bravery, strength, intelligence – we need the hero to be distinguished even from the rest of the characters who work alongside him, on his team. Heroes are ultimately solitary.
That solitary aspect includes more than facing the climactic test alone. In order to reach that point in his life and the story we are reading or watching, the hero must have found himself, and the way we find ourselves is to move out of the crowd, at whatever the cost and consequences. The hero needs to be burned by his solitary time. During it, he has no guarantees that he will emerge a hero. What he does have is the testing time, where he will find himself and re-find characteristics that will serve him, should he choose to accept the hero’s calling. But he must spend his preparation alone: in the desert, lost at sea, shunned by the playground clique, or sitting in his room. Those who stay within the comfort of the crowd are comfortable. They are forgettable. If our character were standing amid a crowd, we would not know him for the hero.
The effect holds true for every one, to a larger or lesser extent. In order to find ourselves and to be a hero to the extent we wish to, in our lives: we need to have passed through that self-examination time, whether physically or intellectually or emotionally, before we can come back to help others. Before we can help others, we need to have passed through our own time alone. There are many more heroes than appear on tv and movies screens, the final pages of stories, or standing in the dust of a Western town.

You're Setting my Teeth on Edge: Cliches

While we smile politely in response to clichéd communication, what’s in our mind?

You rock.
[Throw rocks? Sit in a rocker? Dance to 60s music?]

Thinking outside the box
[If you were in the box, would you be in the cemetery?]

Nowadays
“Now” is quite sufficient, thank you. On your way to your next class, please check Strunk and White’s classic out of the library and see what Mr. White has to say about superfluous words.

My bad
[In addition to making fun of a mistake which may have hurt or inconvenienced others, you are proud of not being able to use grammar correctly?]

Television commercial: “If you or a loved one has died from taking product XYZ,
contact our law office so we can represent you in our suit. You can receive money.”
[Long distance from the grave…]

Conformity

We recently watched the movie School of Rock, in which a self-absorbed guitarist is ejected from his band, impersonates his nerdy roommate as a substitute teacher; and teaches fourth graders about individuality, rock music, and life skills such as lying to parents, clandestine surveillance, soundproofing ones room, and stereotyping. As the mother of sons who used to be fourth graders, and as a former elementary teacher, I could choose to deplore the introduction of adolescent values into the lower elementary classroom. Like the rest of us, though, I realize those values have already percolated to kindergarten: one movie makes no difference.

What I ponder is conformity. Denny teaches his temporary charges about rebelling from “the man” (anyone in authority), and forming their own culture. Do they? They mime traditional rocker hairstyles and clothing. They mimic the postures and stage routines of the greats of rock…who became notable because they were unique. Individual. Original.

Of course the movie features the obligatory revelations, enlightenments, and acceptance of the artist persona (within the bounds of upper class conventional behavior). Everyone learns something, most characters release their inhibitions, there’s parity and ultimately transcendence of racial, professional, and generational boundaries.

But in his own adolescent-type rebellion, Denny demonstrates the most stringent kind of conformity. This is how a music star stands. This is my conception of your role, from lead guitarist to backup singers, to security. Yes, Denny adapts their jobs to their talents (for the classroom stars; the 10 leftover students, are given remainder positions). In his single-minded determination for force his own goals, Denny becomes the basest kind of stereotyped rocker and rebel. He’s a conforming user.

School is not kind to the nonconformists. Exceptionally smart or not ready to learn, they are ridiculed, isolated, patronized, or ignored. None of us want this path for our children or our students. Even when we hold up to them the example of the greats like Einstein who did not fit into their childhood classrooms, we send a double message: be smart and successful; be accepted by your peers and lead the clique. By molding students to fit established roles, we and Denny do those students a disservice. We lessen their potential and our selves. There’s a place for nonconformists. We need their insight and their vision. They set fire to our discussion groups and amaze us with themselves.

We need to appreciate them for who they are. By telling them how to not-conform, we do just the opposite.

I used to; but now

One of the exercises that we’ve used in writing classes as a comparison-contrast is “I used to; but now.”
Our directions are: Consider where you used to be, what life used to be like, then look at life now. What images and ideas will help your readers to visualize and understand your points?
Sometimes the assignment is an essay; usually it is a poem so the writer focuses most on the comparison-contrast images.
It’s also a good writing exercise to begin a new year or a new semester.
This is a sample I wrote, to demonstrate the format for my writing classes.


I refused to look at the frog in biology;
But now I study Netter’s Atlas of Human Anatomy because people I love are in Gross Anatomy and because I need accurate anatomical detail when I kill people in the stories I am writing.

My fingers used to shy from the roots, from tulip bulbs with their snout poking toward the sky and their furze of root ends;
But now I shift bulbs from my warm palm to the cool October soil, sending them into darkness with a call to come back to light, bringing their color.

I used to say, “Ick,” to moldy leftovers, refuse to search inside the garbage disposal for that dropped fork, the ring, the dishcloth;
But now I think on it and do it anyway, because someone needs to.

I used to cringe at the thought of dirty diapers;
But now I routinely clean the anus of dogs and babies alike:
A natural exit hole, how much cleaner than the shreds of a bullet’s passing or the residue of someone’s hate.

I used to look at brown and see dirty: wash your hands, scrub the floor: clean your room;
Now I see the world: brown rice, sepia shadows, mocha skin tones, latte coffee, chocolate in twenty shades of glory.

I used to shudder at potatoes’ spindly sprouts, pushing into the air;
Now I muse that there’s something left to grow on:
Iris tubers, bleeding heart divisions, peony eyes, Idaho’s best in utero:
Rudely growing, aggressively colonizing where they will not, should not, must not.
They will not yield.

Maybe my eyes are less lid and more eyeball to see the unity of us all
Maybe, but I do not think so.

Each experience leaves its mark:
Discarded gum freckles the sidewalks; Scars slide across skin; Memories color the mind;
Emotions imprint our cells.

I think Life happens and Grace arrives.