Herioc

Superheroes are the best representation we have of the characteristics we wish we had. If we take the movie Thor for example (no mystery it was the inspiration for this particular train of thought), here is psychological display of an individual with an ego problem and the means to control and destroy just about everything, but stripped of his power he is left to dig deep within himself to figure out what is important and what is worth sacrificing for.

First of all, we should perhaps examine the fact that the actor they found to play the Mythical God of War is just about the biggest human I’ve ever seen. There is no shame in saying that the man is handsome, he is a pretty man, and when they put him up on the screen with Natalie Portman drooling over him, not only does he tower over her, he compels even the most respectable and naturalistic among us heterosexual males to seek out some shady peddlers of anabolic steroids. Who wouldn’t want to be this guy? Moreover, I don’t even feel sorry for him when he is banished to earth and loses his hammer for being headstrong and bloodthirsty. Hell if the whole golden city in the sky thing doesn’t work out he could probably get a gig as an actor and take up a side job as a mercenary for thrills, while throwing little Natalie over his shoulder and taking her home with him. Wait. . .

I love the 3D thing by the way. I don’t know about wearing some goofy glasses to watch movies at home, but on the massive projection screen at your local cinema it is just downright impressive, and they will no doubt streamline the necessary spectacles in short order. If you have not been to see a 3D movie, seriously, get over your distaste for all that is new and innovative. Occasionally the technological advancements of the human race are not geared towards destruction and do actually make things that much more awesome . . . sometimes both.

Our beloved characters are highly complex and extremely simplistic and idealistic at the same time. Comic books came from myths, legends, and eventually developed into a portrayal of beings (not always human) that have humanistic flaws, enacting impossible feats and conquering forces of evil beyond our capabilities.

The modern day superhero, aside from being a never-ending source of screen-plays, is an embodiment of human emotion and virtue, with more self-awareness and a higher sense of purpose than most of us possess. To take away the required powers we all fantasize about: a means of quick travel (flight, web slinging, super speed, etc.), an ability to disappear (invisibility, stealth, a cloak, etc.), incredible strength, and heightened perceptual and sensational ability, we find ourselves looking at merely a hero. We tout actual heroes in libraries and museums, monuments and statues. To look past a superhero to the fundamental difference between a hero and a villain, we find that the ability to take decisive action in the best interest of humanity is the pivotal ingredient. Selflessness, sound judgment, compassion, courage, and the ability to persevere reveal themselves as the characteristics of every hero, super or monumental.

Notice that none of these individuals operate well under someone else’s authority, they act the most purposefully on their own deduction, and it is this quality in particular that is common among the human and extraordinary heroes alike. Take David Banner’s effort to channel the rage induced Hulk for example, it is his self-awareness and the recognition that he must control his anger in order to do the right thing that really makes him both phenomenally human and unquestionably heroic. Batman is a deontological character, refusing to cross certain moral boundaries with regards to punishing criminals, because he sees actions of this manner as placing him on the same level as those he hunts (a stance oddly similar to that taken by those opposed to capital punishment). 

I guess the point is this: we enjoy watching the struggles and triumphs of these characters because deep down we want to believe that the ability to make these choices and take these stands against the things we see as unjust exists also within us; the ability to do the right thing by our own determination and against all odds. Fortunately for the superheroes, their choices and struggles might be complicated, but their battles and purpose are simple. It is harder to be human, and our thought process has to account for many more factors. I watch these movies not only because I like the dazzling images and special effects, but because there is honesty to the superhero that our lives out here make complicated to possess. Complicated, but not impossible; doing the wrong thing for the right reasons and doing the right thing for the wrong reasons often become convoluted in our own plot lines.

My 5 Stages

At 10:50 pm I was sprawled out across my mattress reading through the text messages of the day and watching the end of a rerun of The Office played on local channel 38. It had been a good day, I woke up late, I went to the library for a while and finished a major portion of the project that was due at the beginning of the week, and I’d gone to a new Chinese food place that had cheap dinner specials with a good friend of mine. As I relaxed for a moment, preparing for the next move of the evening, deciding whether or not to continue studying or pack it in, I received a text message saying “Yo, Osama’s dead.” I was puzzled by this, wondering if it was a joke, and I had to re-read it because at first glance I thought my boy was talking about the president. The difference between the B and the S didn’t register in my mind, and it was honestly more probable that something had happened to him rather than the ghost our country has been chasing for just shy of ten years.

“What?”

“Turn on ABC right now.”

Luckily that’s a channel I pick up in High Definition with the rabbit ears, so I switched it over. Within moments I had shifted from a reclined position to sitting at the edge of the bed and staring at the screen in awe.

“Osama Bin Laden was killed by a guided missile from a predator drone controlled by U.S. Special Forces in a compound just outside of Abbottabad, Pakistan about 1 hour ago.”

Disbelief

I was in shock. Was he still out there? Did everything we’d been doing actually lead us to some intelligence regarding his whereabouts? What perfect symmetry it was that the Navy SEALs seized the opportunity to blow that fanatical war-mongerer out of existence.

Obama appeared about 15 minutes after the initial breaking news story to give a rousing speech, full of bold statements and sentiments about justice and perseverance. By then I’d been on Facebook holding eight different conversations and my phone was vibrating so much it fell off my desk.

I didn’t believe it; I want to see the body, what is all this discussion about a burial at sea? Let’s get some photo evidence, because this guy has been hiding for far too long.

Adulation

I moved past this eerie state and my heart began to flutter. What if it is true!? What if we really got that motherfucker? Well hell I don’t want him buried at sea, I want to drag his body through the streets on national television and piss and spit on him like the Somalis did to the slain Special Forces operatives in ’99, or like the insurgents do when they capture people and behead them on portable handheld video cameras from back-alley basements somewhere deep within the walls of Iraqi cities or an obscure cave somewhere deep within the bowels of the tunnel system that snakes through the Hindu Kush. “I need to drink heavily, fuck something, and fuck someone up all at the same time! Where’s my bottle of Jameson!?” Let’s get on the news and scream “Fuck you” at the top of our lungs and claim retribution for the millions of lives inexorably altered by the actions of this lunatic.

I needed my punching bag, the one I’d used duct tape to turn into a person. The one I gave a face and let out my post traumatic aggression on mercilessly at wee hours of the morning on my balcony in Arizona to the dismay of my neighbors. I felt lightheaded and exuberant . . . and . . .

Anger

Infuriated, I was so mad I couldn’t see straight, I put my conversations on pause and gritted my teeth. I flipped the blade of my Smith and Wesson knife open and closed repeatedly as my chin started doing its jumpy thing. I felt my face grow flush.

It wasn’t good enough. He doesn’t get to die an instant death at the behest of an explosion. We should have pinned him up against a wall by his hands and feet and used him for target practice. Capture him and put him in a soundproof room with me and let me get diabolical about how to induce pain. Don’t torture him for information; just torture him because the fucker deserves it.

I was livid, despite my views on religion, at that moment I hoped there was a hell and that he was in it burning with all of the other demented psychopaths who’d blown up women and children, destroyed innocent people and their lives like it was some sick game that they had some strategy for. I hoped he was playing backgammon with hitler while being raped repeatedly by bloodthirsty demons. I hoped he’d find out that all 72 virgins were vicious ogres bred solely for the purposes of using his sphincter as a merry-go-round.

Depression

All of my ferocity and desire for this man to have suffered a vicious and maniacally gory death gave way to a chilly sense of complete and utter isolation. I reached out to my brothers who are still in the military, seeking validation. Suddenly I was consumed by the notion that my purpose is now meaningless, that everything I’ve done since the Navy has been selfish and pointless. I considered that I should be fighting, that this act in which U.S. Navy SEALs hit a high value target with extreme precision was an example of our fight being just. I reflected on all of my experiences.

I got out of the military because I don’t believe in the fight as much as needed to in order to complete the tasks set before me. It was a cruel bit of irony really that I chose not to be a SEAL and was sent to Guantanamo to finish out the final chapter of my enlistment as a babysitter for belligerent detainees. I used to have some disturbing nightmares, and conceal a large amount of guilt for what I was a part of and bearing witness to both the most unbridled reckless rage within myself as well as humanity.

Years of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and personal reflection have revealed that I’m not a monster, but instead that I have the capacity to be who I have to, based on my circumstances and personal judgment. But not everyone can endure what I did, or what those in the military are, it takes a level of mental fortitude and courage possessed by few. It was an honor and a privilege to serve with those I did, in my mind there is no higher calling than protecting those you love and watching the backs of those who stand with you. So many go forth to fight and die while I comfortably earn a graduate degree and find a pleasant way to make an income, and that is something that constantly haunts me. I may just be another number out there, but I think about my brother-in-law and the men who accompanied me into the breach time and time again, and perhaps being simply a number out there means more than being a number here.

Clarity

As I sit here at the end of my venting session and contemplate the events of last night and the wave of emotion that has crashed over me, I’m frightened of the perpetual blood feud that the United States is involved in. After I threw my laundry in the wash this morning I walked out to the low wall in front of the Laundromat and took a seat in the glow of the morning sun. I watched for twenty minutes as the world went about its business; the cars moved swiftly back and forth on the painted asphalt, people walked hurriedly in and out of buildings, almost sprinting down the sidewalk with headphones in, heading somewhere they deem personally important. It was like the morning after a birthday, when insignificance is personified.

I remember one of the images that infuriated me last night was that of the various locations at which Americans were out celebrating in the early hours of this morning, acting like idiots on national television, rejoicing the death of an ideological figurehead in front of the entire world. Do we really think this changes anything? Our excitement is founded in reason, we went after the man responsible and killed him . . . but he’s not the only one responsible, and he doesn’t lead an army of conquered peasants. These jihadists won’t lay down their weapons and go home because we hunted and slaughtered the pop-culture icon of terrorists. How would we react if we saw the enemy delighting in the death of our leader? I’d be locked and loaded, hollow points in the chamber, pulling the desert BDUs out of hibernation. We perpetuate this cycle of death, and all I can do is hope that we might now be more inclined to cut our losses and say something along the lines of “Both sides have suffered, we have to end the bloodshed” rather than continuing the cyclical war of retaliation.

I fear now, as most of those close to me do, that this may be the beginning of an even darker time. I want to be wrong; I would like the world to prove me wrong. I fight no more because my contribution or death would simply add to the pile of corpses, but I feel like a coward because I choose not to accompany my brothers in arms and improve their chances of returning home unscathed. At the end of the day it is all about chance, there is no reason why things happen, they just do, and to think that we control anything beyond our own reactions is simply a fool’s errand. The ripple effect from ending the life of a man responsible for altering the course of history and the manner in which nations conduct themselves will be massive. I’m not sure what that means, but I’m anxious to find out. Prepare for the worst, because it is often more likely, but hope for the best because as balance goes that occasionally transpires as well.