Driving Vern's Volvo

My grandfather has had a hip replacement, three surgeries on his back, his gallbladder removed, and several other operations over the course of his 78 year life. For my entire life he has been my grandfather, Rachel Simon’s grandfather. Just because he has had some alterations to his anatomy over time, does that no longer make him my grandfather? Of course not. He has not stopped being my grandfather throughout my life, even though every now and then he receives a modification of sorts.

In a similar fashion, Vern’s Volvo is the car Vern has been driving continuously for twenty years. With emphasis on ownership as well as the proper functioning of a car, Vern’s Volvo is the Volvo Vern is driving at the present time, not the heap of parts Grace has in the corner. One can argue that those parts were once the original parts of Vern’s original Volvo, however Vern made the decision to pay for those parts to be removed. His hard work allowed him to make the money necessary to purchase the parts that he willingly had replaced.

If Grace were to reassemble the parts she had taken out of Vern’s Volvo, Vern’s Volvo would still be the car he drives. Similarly, if my grandfather were to have every single bone in his body replaced, every organ transplanted, plastic surgery on every surface of his body such that he was unrecognizable, he would still be my grandfather. The reason for this is that my grandfather remains my grandfather because the one aspect of his being that cannot be changed is his “essence.” The “essence” of my grandfather, his heart (figuratively) and soul, as I see them, do not change with various anatomical procedures, and furthermore, I do not stop being my grandfather’s granddaughter. He remains my grandfather. The essence of Vern’s Volvo lies with Vern himself. Grace changes out every part of Vern’s Volvo except the Volvo’s driver: Vern. Therefore, because Vern’s relationship to the car does not change, one cannot say Grace’s reassembly of Vern’s old parts is Vern’s Volvo.

The old parts stopped being Vern’s parts the moment they were taken out of Vern’s Volvo. In fact, those parts were only “Vern’s parts” while they resided in Vern’s vehicle. Let’s take a look at the journey these parts have made. While those parts were being manufactured, they were not even a part of any car. Then, they found their place in a Volvo that would be sent to a dealer. Vern bought the Volvo from the dealer and for a while all of those parts could, in truth, be labeled the parts of “Vern’s Volvo” because they resided in the car Vern drove. However, as Grace replaced each part, the parts said goodbye to their temporary possessor, and now are no longer a part of Vern’s car.

Note that the parts of something do not define the whole: the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. So long as Vern is driving a Volvo, Vern’s Volvo exists. The parts lose their identity as “Vern’s Volvo’s parts” the moment they are removed. But, because Vern’s Volvo never stopped existing while these parts were exchanged, Vern’s Volvo is the car he has been driving for twenty years.

In biology we learn that there are various levels of complexity to living things from smallest to largest. They go in this hierarchical order: cell, tissue, organ, organ system, organism. With each level, there are emergent properties, meaning the level below does not contain the current level’s properties. In addition, when a tissue is disassembled, it no longer retains the property of a tissue, but rather that of a cell. When a cell is disassembled, the matter is no longer termed living. This concept corresponds to the Vern’s Volvo situation on two levels. First, that Vern’s Volvo as a whole, the equivalent of an organism (highest level of organization) retains properties that the level below (parts) cannot express. Second, Vern’s Volvo was never disassembled all at once, therefore, it maintains, for argument’s sake, organism-level status. And thirdly, this concept proves that the heap of parts simply cannot be Vern’s Volvo because they cannot even be considered a functioning vehicle. As mentioned earlier, even if Grace were to reassemble them, the reassembled car would still not be Vern’s because Vern does not drive it.

The question is not “which is the the Volvo Vern bought?” If that were the question, the answer would be more difficult to answer, because the original parts of Vern’s car could be arguably the only plausible parts of the original Volvo, yet some might argue that considering Vern bought the car and it was never demolished entirely, the car he drives is the car he bought. A similar situation would even be if I were to make a clone of my sister, Kimberly, such that she would be genetically identical, which would be the real Kimberly? Without some kind of definition of Kimberly, we cannot say. So what defines us? Our relationships with other people and things define who we are. Thus, because the question is which is Vern’s Volvo, so long as Vern drives his current Volvo, he is driving Vern’s Volvo.

"Getting to know me, getting to know all about me...."

Tonight at the Amity Varsity Basketball game I glanced down at my Dance Team jacket and saw the number ‘12 on my right arm. I couldn’t help but think, “Oh, that’s this year.” 2012 is a very important year for me, and for everyone my age considering we are making an extremely large leap from a world of structured youth to a universe of boundless opportunities and maturity. For most of us, a welcoming institution, we hope, will soften the entryway to such a universe, where we can trim our topiaries of knowledge before really feeling “set free.” In order to get there, of course, there is an application process. This process is more than just a series of questions asking about extracurriculars and family members’ college educations. I believe the college application process serves as a mechanism to continue discovering who we are. We have been doing so all throughout high school, and will continue to do so, probably more intensely, in college. Thus, the application is a hurdle we must clear before entering such a dramatically different world. Schools design their questions so we are forced to learn about ourselves. It is a necessary process, nonetheless.

In order to be truly happy, one must know oneself. We must know our weaknesses, strengths, passions, likes, dislikes, flaws, habits, etc. Because, how in the world can we expect to try and learn about the world around us or try to understand the people we know and love unless we know ourselves first? Once we realize that, perhaps, we are not the type of person who likes to get drunk in the club dancing to ear-blasting techno music, but rather we enjoy reading Jane Austen novels by a fireplace and turning in at 9:30 pm, we can surround ourselves with people who share that preference. I think a large percentage of divorces occur not because the couple didn’t truly know each other, but probably because they didn’t know themselves well enough to realize they married the wrong person.

Not knowing oneself at all is almost as bad as lying to oneself about who he or she is. We can try to deny what makes us strong (or what makes us weak), but this “un-realization” is a weakness itself. I suppose my weakness is not that I cannot confess my own weakness because I am about to tell you what it is, but I must say I believe my biggest flaw to be quite similar to lying to myself.

I worry far too much about other people’s opinions. I always have. People who know me know that I am probably the most ridiculously obsessed Harry Potter nerd ever. I have been an avid fan since the day my father began reading the books to me. However, during middle school, when the cool things to do were to straighten your hair, wear Abercrombie & Fitch, and constantly apply large amounts of lip-gloss, wearing my “Wizard-In-Training” Gryffindor t-shirt was quite frankly an unimaginable concept. I didn’t stop loving Harry Potter, I still read the books every night and highly (HIGHLY) anticipated the movies, but I began hiding my love for it. In sixth grade the day the fourth movie came out I came to school in my Hogwarts t-shirt, “Seeker” hat, and “Time Turner.” In middle school, I changed my screen name on AIM from hpdncr716 to xrachii16x. It makes me sad to think that I had to hide such an awesome part about me, that I was truly passionate about something (other than dance) because I wanted to be friends with the popular kids. Thankfully, as I mentioned, my weakness is not that I refuse to recognize my flaws. I did grow out of that phase somewhat…meaning I’m proud to flaunt my Harry Potter religion (I’ve met some pretty awesome closet Harry Potter nerds), however remnants of this weakness remain.

At the basketball game tonight, the Spartans were doing fantastically. With their score a whopping 64, the coach called a timeout. As a dance team member with a blessed affinity for turning, I usually “turn” the score, that is I do x number of fouette turns (turns where I spin on one leg, with the other whipping around to propel me) and the crowd counts them. 64 is a really big number, so I figure what if two of us do the turns and the crowd can count by two’s? We would only have to do 32 each! So, I convince one of our wonderful freshmen to do the turns with me. Around the number 56 I heard a thud and an “ohhh” from the crowd. My poor freshman had fallen on her rear end. And do you want to know my first reaction? “I hope people don’t think I’m cocky for continuing my turns after she fell. I hope it doesn’t seem as if I was showing her up.” I hate that that was my first thought instead of an “Oh my gosh, are you okay? I’m so sorry I made you do the turns with me; you were awesome.”

This weakness is one that is really hard to fix because it involves an immense amount of courage and pride in being the person I truly am. Throughout high school, and now especially through the college application process, I’ve grown so much in that regard because I began doing some self-discovery. Only through knowing myself can I begin to grow out of such a limiting flaw.

Fortunately, through my college applications I haven’t only discovered my weaknesses, but also my strength, my best quality. I know it sounds really super cheesy, but sometimes my sisters and I have one of those cliché, sappy, “Full House” episode worthy bedroom chats. Nicole and I were sitting pretzel-style on my bed a few months ago and we were just talking about the three of us. For instance, the fact that Nicole and Kimberly can command a room’s attention just by walking in the door, but I’ve always been much too shy to do that. At one point, Nicole says to me, “Rach, you know what I don’t understand? Why do you have such an inherent need to be perfect? You never settle for anything less than the best.” To me, that was the best compliment I could have ever received. The people I know are frequently bothered by the fact that most of the endeavors I attempt work out in my favor. “You’re perfect, Rachel, shut up.” That’s the common comment I hear after landing a quadruple pirouette, or receiving an A on an AP Biology test. I honestly hate when people say that because they know it isn’t true. What they mean is that in me they see a truly instinctive desire to do my best, a motivation unparalleled by anything. I am proud to say that I love this attribute of myself the most.

I’ve learned an awful lot about myself during my teenage years, more than I could ever imagine. That’s because when I was a kid I had blonde hair, hazel eyes, and a shy temperament. That’s what I saw in the mirror; that’s who I was. But adolescence brings about a plethora of experiences in which I, as an individual, get to make decisions for myself, find out who I want to be friends with, and, through these experiences I am almost forced to figure out who I am on the inside.

Reflecting inward can be hard for many reasons. Maybe you are scared of what you might find. Maybe you don’t want to believe that that is who you are, and you like hiding it because it makes life easier. Maybe, modesty overpowers your ability to boost your self-esteem and recognize your strengths. But, do you know what’s even harder than simply thinking about yourself? Writing about yourself. Writing something down turns something private into something public. Writing down a reflection of your strengths and weaknesses is like digging deep into your heart and soul and then displaying your findings on a jumbo-tron.

It takes courage to both reflect about oneself and to write it down. But perhaps, it is the act of writing it down that confirms the reflection. The act of writing down what I think of myself has been difficult; it feels real, like all of the abstract things I sometimes think about as I lie in bed at night are all of a sudden concrete. I found it difficult because I didn’t want to know my weaknesses…I think as humans we like to pretend we have none. Also, pondering my strengths felt more like bragging than it did self-rewarding. However, I have now written down what I think of myself. What is more, I wrote it down for colleges to see. I think that’s an added bonus for colleges: when they ask students to describe themselves they also get to see how comfortable they are with the tasks of looking inward and sharing what they discover.

It is 2012, and I am graduating high school this year. I feel at ease to know that I have already learned an incredible amount about the world around me and myself. “Know thyself” is perhaps some of the best advice I can follow. I hope to continue learning about myself as I enter an arena where the reason I am in school is for the sake of learning and expanding my knowledge for myself. “Knowing” myself leads to understanding what I want, which will lead to a life of happiness and fulfillment.

Outside Eden

In her poem entitled “Eden is that old-fashioned House,” Emily Dickinson offers us a different, more relatable view of the well-known story of Adam and Eve. To begin, I will dissect the poem itself to demonstrate its meaning with respect to the biblical tale and later I will, using Dickinson’s wording, connect such meaning to my own life.

An “old-fashioned House” is a dwelling that existed before you did, a house that you know well and a house of safety, security and comfort (Dickinson, 1). Eden is all of these things for Adam and Eve as God placed them there and they had never left it. “There he put man whom he had formed;” man was born into Eden (Genesis 2:8). The characteristic feature of a home “we dwell in everyday” from the moment we are born, is that we do not know we live there—we do not know of our home’s existence—until we leave it (Dickinson, 3). “Eden is that old-fashioned House:” a house of warmth and security, but also innocence. We do not “[suspect] our abode/Until we drive away” (Dickinson, 3-4). Similarly, we do not know we are innocent until we are no longer innocent. When the serpent manipulates Eve to eat the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, and Adam eats as well, they disobey God. As consequence, God “dr[ives] out the man” and Adam and Eve’s newly-opened eyes realize the nirvana they had just left (Genesis 3:24).

Dickinson then extends the meaning of being driven out of Eden in terms of the future. She ascertains that though we may “[look] back [on] the Day/We sauntered from the Door,” we are “unconscious” of never again finding the same Eden we once knew (Dickinson, 5-7). Her use of the word “sauntered” suggests the careless, fallible, human curiosity that eventually became the cause of Adam and Eve’s expulsion from the garden. And, Adam and Eve “sauntered” out not knowing that if ever they were to return, they would “discover it no more,” or it would be changed in some way (Dickinson, 8). Dickinson shows us the meaning of the story of Adam and Eve’s expulsion from Eden: that one only knows of the existence of home and innocence when one leaves home. And, one cannot go back to the same home he or she once knew.

My home in Woodbridge, Connecticut is the home I was born into. It is the home I “dwell in everyday,” and although I suppose it is architecturally speaking a contemporary house, I would call it my “old-fashioned House” because it represents the same things for me as Eden did for Adam and Eve: safety, warmth, and security (Dickinson, 1-2). I could recite my address and phone number to you when I was three years old, then again I did not really know why my mother made me do that at the time.

When I was eleven years old I went away to a ballet summer intensive program in Florida for a month. I remember feeling old, mature, free, but also scared and small. In Florida, though I remember feeling scared I was able to “[look] back on the Day/[I] sauntered from the Door” and know that I had the promise of my home awaiting me four weeks later. It was only a month, after all, and I was only eleven. I still had a definite seven more years of living at 158 Peck Hill Road Woodbridge, CT to look forward to.

Now, six and a half years later, I know I am approaching the finish line. I do feel as though I have experienced what it is like to pseudo-“drive away” after going away on my own for many years now, but what looms in my mind is the permanence of this “driv[ing] away” I am about to experience [Dickinson, 4]. In accordance with Dickinson’s poem, and Adam and Eve’s expulsion, the ultimate departure from home is not something I can experience twice; therefore I really do not know what lies ahead for me. Thankfully, these months of college applications and discussions about future plans have prepared me for the actual act of “driv[ing] away” [Dickinson, 4]. I can’t know what it will be like until that first night I sleep in my dorm room, and to be honest I am beyond nervous. The idea of permanent change scares me to no end; that when I return I will “discover [true home] no more” (Dickinson, 8).

I would not say that I am scared of my mother turning my bedroom into a sewing room; that is not the change of which I am scared. But rather, I am anxious to find that home doesn’t really feel like home. My sister, having been in college for a few months now, came home for Thanksgiving to find her room had been turned upside down because of a recent carpet installment upstairs. She liked the carpet, but I think that change symbolized much bigger changes for her that she found when she returned.

Another aspect I am scared of is missing dancing with New England Ballet Company. I cannot remember the last September-December time period I spent not dancing in the Nutcracker. And the fact that I will not be dancing in it next year makes me nauseous and uneasy, because it is something I love and something I have done almost my entire life. I know that when I come home for winter break next year I will go and see the Nutcracker, for the first time in my life (rather than dance in it), and I know it will be hard for me to watch it having not been there for the entire rehearsal process, and having not spent every waking hour in that godforsaken studio sweating my arse off. I think I will be jealous, and I think I will be sad because I know I can never have the experiences I’m having right now (here we go production week 2011!) ever again. In a way, I am conscious of the fact that upon returning I will “discover [home] no more,” however I am completely unaware of what it will actually be like to come back to my “old-fashioned House” after beginning my life outside the gates of Eden.

Stage Fright

I never want to go to dance class. Mommy says she thinks I'll like it, so we drive to Orange every Tuesday afternoon and walk in the back door. The back, small studio is where the Creative A level class goes, and Mommy usually watches from the windows while she's looking after baby Nicole. But today Miss Karen asks all the moms to go into the big studio and wait. Today we are trying on our costumes for the first time. "Goodship Lollipop" is the perfect song to dress up in red and white stripes: a leotard, one of those tutus that just looks like a fuzzy band around my hips instead of the pretty ones that stick out flat that the big girls wear. And to top it off (literally) a white beret with a ginormous red pom-pom sitting, flapping in the middle of my head. All of us are getting ready in the small studio and we even have white gloves to complete the look. I glance at myself in the mirror and I think I look just perfect. I tilt my hat the way I want, my tutu is perfectly fluffed. I even help the other girls with theirs.

Then Miss Karen walks us all in a straight line through the door that leads into the big studio.

"AHAHAHAHA. OH MY GAWD LOOK HOW CUTE," an obnoxiously overpowering woman bellows the second she sees us little Shirley Temples walking in the vastly more intimidating ballet studio. In that moment all I see are the eyes of the other mommies staring at me, their mouths stretching from ear-to-ear like the Cheshire Cat, cackling at how cute I look: they are clearly laughing at me. Their video cameras with red lights blinking to indicate they are recording this humiliation to go back and laugh at at a later date. I suddenly feel nervous and scared and when Miss Karen puts on the music to show the moms how good we look doing the dance in the costumes, I can't. I know the dance, but I can't do it in front of all these people. They're laughing at me. And I look over to the door on the opposite side of the studio to see a crowd of giggling teenagers pointing at me, whispering, "Aw, so cute."

I'm feeling more and more frightened with each evil smile I see and, of course, I start to cry. I refuse to show the dance, so Mommy takes me home.

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Now it's May and the real recital is this weekend. We drive to the theater in Milford, it's a longer drive than just to ballet. We don't need our costumes for today, it's just a "blocking" rehearsal. Mommy opens the door for me and I almost collapse when I see the size of the room through those creaky doors. Kim, my older sister, runs down the aisle as fast as she can right up to the stage. I, however, am frozen. In the far distance I see the crazy mother who laughed at me a few months ago. She has her video camera ready. I can't do it. I can't go up there. Everybody will see me and laugh at me and make fun of me. When it's time for my rehearsal I put up the best fight I can. Literally kicking and screaming, crying and wrestling against Mommy she forces me up the stairs onto the stage. You can' t make me go. I won't do it. They laugh at me. The big girls are watching. The moms are watching. Everybody is watching.

Through all the hysteria I suddenly feel Mommy's soft cheek against mine. And she whispers in my ear, "Take a deep breath and try. All you can do is try." I take the deepest breath I can through my whimpering. I close my eyes. And I step on the stage. You know what? I can't even see anybody. There are these crazy bright lights shining in my eyes so I can't see the cackling mother, the red lights on the video cameras, the big girls with a permanent "aw" shape plastered on their mouths. All I hear is music, all I know is I that I know what steps to do and I'm having fun.

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Saturday arrives and with it all of the nerves I thought I'd gotten rid of. I realize there weren't even that many people in the audience earlier in the week, but today: jam-packed. Bustling with faces I know and don't know. My stage fright is almost too horrendous to comprehend. I cry while Mommy puts on my make-up (a very unusual concept considering putting on make-up is perhaps my favorite thing in the universe). Before I go onstage Mommy says that Daddy wants to talk to me. I find him outside the theater and he tells me the same thing Mommy told me earlier, "Deep breath, Rach. All you can do now is try. I have a special surprise for you if you get up there and do just that."

With my white gloves still on and my lips still bright red I make my way through the crowd of people exiting the theater and I see my father waiting for me with flowers and perhaps the most exciting thing of all, a piece of watermelon-flavored Bubblicious gum (this is a HUGE deal because we are not allowed to chew gum).

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Fast-forward fifteen years and I am still dancing with New England Ballet. Countless performances, costumes, flowers, pieces of Bubblicious gum (yes, that tradition continued) later and I cannot imagine a life without performing. I often wonder what would have happened if I did not make the decision to follow my mother's and father's "You'll never know until you try" advice. Dance in so many ways, has defined my life. Performing is probably the closest I've ever been to "bliss" in my life so far, and to think I was a three-year-old's snap decision away from never experiencing it is mind-blowing. This advice, for me, has both been relevant in my life and hard to follow. If you haven't noticed, I'm very much concerned with what people think of me, a serious character flaw in my opinion, but it's evident in my reaction to the cackling mother, for instance. It's hard to try new things because I'm often afraid of what people might think. However, over time, I've embraced this advice my parents gave me and it has led to some of the best results I could have ever dreamed: a love for ballet, for example. And even then, to think, it was probably that piece of Bubblicious gum that prompted me to perform the next year, and the next, and the next...

Happy birthday to you...happy birthday to you...happy birthday to you...happy...

When Utnapishtim replies to Gilgamesh’s request for immortality with simply, “There is no permanence,” he refers to the very basis of human life, what it means to be alive. First and foremost, we are biologically living. Scientifically speaking, we are made of cells, we develop and reproduce; we fit all of the criteria as part of the Kingdom of Animalia. Thus, we must expire. It is a part of the circle of life, the nature of all biotic organisms: we are born, we live, we die. Humans have accepted this fact and we see it in even the most regular of rituals, for instance blowing out candles on a birthday cake. In our culture, it is customary to light candles, put them atop a cake, sing “Happy Birthday” and then blow them out. The act of blowing out a candle is rather symbolic, no? As if we are extinguishing the years that have passed because they are gone, over; we will never get them back. Of course, if this were the only way in which we thought of birthdays, they would be very depressing affairs. Therefore, we eat cake and have a party for completing another year of life. Why do we blow out candles on birthdays instead of lighting new ones? Aren’t we starting another year of life in addition to ending the previous one? Utnapishtim answers, “There is no permanence,” because as much as we celebrate, we still must accept the notion that someday, all of our candles will be extinguished.

Gilgamesh says, “as for us men, our days are numbered, our occupations are a breath of wind” (71). However, if everybody celebrated their birthdays with a “one year closer to death” attitude as opposed to a “one more year of life complete” attitude, the whole world would be full of people unwilling to live. This is certainly not the case. People get up and go about their business everyday because of the relationships we have with other people, the connections we make, and the fact that we give life value and want to make the most of it. This is what separates humans from other living creatures. All living things eventually die, but only humans recognize the sheer importance and fortune of living life to the fullest. Carmen Martín Gaíte wrote a short story entitled “Las ataduras,” with the word “atadura” literally translating to “the bonds that bind us.” The relationships that outlast physical life give life meaning. We see this with Gilgamesh and Enkidu. The experiences they encounter together, such as the quest to destroy Humbaba, bring them closer as friends, brothers, and lovers. In their journey they provide each other with words of encouragement and the confidence that ultimately allows them to defeat Humbaba. We know the effect of this relationship this because of the way Gilgamesh mourns Enkidu when Enkidu dies. We see that the bond between Gilgamesh and “the strong comrade, the one who brings help to his friend in need” (66), Enkidu, has forever changed Gilgamesh because, when Enkidu dies, Gilgamesh begins “to rage like a lion, like a lioness robbed of her whelps. This way and that he pace[s] around the bed, he [tears] out his hair and strew[s] it around “ (95). Gilgamesh feels true grief and loss because he felt true love and friendship. He then mandates that the people of Uruk erect a statue in honor of Enkidu. This represents the everlasting effect of the connection between Gilgamesh and Enkidu.

Furthermore, Enkidu’s life is forever altered by his relationships with other people. The harlot weakens him physically, but more importantly, she transforms him into a human; she begins to socialize him. It is because of her that Enkidu feels the need to confront Gilgamesh, and thus, he meets his future best friend. We, as humans, are the means by which the immortal connections of love come to be. People die, yes, it is a fact of life, but we put gravestones over their dead bodies. We are forever changed by the people we love and who love us, and this gives life meaning. Why would a tired middle-aged husband wake up each morning, go to his bleak and cold office in order to sit in front of a computer and make phone calls all day? Because the money he receives from his job allows him to provide for his loving wife and three children.

Faith, in other words something in which to believe, gives us a sense of order and eternal life. Religion, specifically, provides a tangible structure for faith. Going to Church, synagogue, etc. every week and reading scriptures that were written in order to guide you through your life give us a sense of order. Religion has been present on earth since the Sumerians wrote about it and even before, because it was natural for humans to need something to believe, something to give reason. Moreover, religion is eternal. It is perhaps one of the closest concepts we have in our lives to immortality. It is something that carries over from generation to generation, providing structure and guidance in our lives every step of the way. For instance, Ea saves Utnapishtim from the floods and Shamash helps Gilgamesh and Enkidu defeat Humbaba. In addition we have Hammurabi, who was sent to Earth in order to carry out the gods’ will, the American expansionists of the 19^th century who believed in manifest destiny, that it was their god-given duty to settle in the land out west. With faith in a higher power, we accept our positions as mortals meant to pass on the faith to the generations that follow.

Human life is precious, malleable, and limited. However, it is only limited in the biological sense. Philosophically, the ideas we have, the lessons we teach, and the connections we make never die. These are propagated through eternity. It is the will to create new ideas, lessons, and connections that progresses humanity and gives meaning to life.

"Did you ever know that you're my hero, and everything I would like to be?"

People often associate “heroes” with “super heroes.” The images that appear in their minds involve capes billowing in the wind, damsels in distress, and some kind of supernatural ability (such as flying or X-ray vision). However, a true hero does not need to have super strength in order to be considered a hero. To quote Bette Midler’s song, “Wind Beneath My Wings,” a hero is a person who we admire, someone who is “everything [we] would like to be.” Therefore, we can see where the concept of a “super hero” comes from, for we do admire super heroes and they possess heroic attributes that we see in heroes of the not-as-“super” nature.

These role models that are our real-life society’s “heroes” possess certain qualities. They require a selfless confidence, a strength of mind, most often a tendency to lead, and a strong sense to spread good in the world (rid the world of evil, if you will). These people who meet these criteria are the people we look up to because they actively take a part in making the world a better place. Now, whether our heroes are in a position of power, for instance the president of a charity who devotes his or her life to raising funds to find a cure for cancer, or merely a woman who stops in the street to help an old man carry his groceries, they do their part to spread kindness, and often do so without a desire for recognition. I find that people often cannot see the heroes of the world because of their silent, selfless contributions to society.

I agree that people consider the protagonists of works such as The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and The Odyssey to be heroes, but they do so for the wrong reasons. When reading books or watching movies that have a very clear protagonist who carries the plot and whose actions determine the culmination of the story, it is easy to think of that character as the hero of the story. We do this because we see that image of a super hero flying across our brains and think of such things as power and responsibility. We assume that clearly the character has a certain amount of power and responsibility because the author made him or her the protagonist (most often “him”), thus his actions are generally most important.

However, I believe that in order to determine whether or not a protagonist is a true hero, one must examine his character and actions, not just his role in the plot of the novel/movie. This does not mean that some protagonists are not heroes, in fact many of them are, but to see why they are heroes, we must do some analysis first. For instance, Huckleberry Finn is considered a hero. He is the star character of Twain’s picaresque novel, and in true picaresque form, Huck is often considered an anti-hero. In other words, from adventure to adventure Huck’s actions may not be morally “good” or “appropriate” especially for the time period in which Twain wrote his novel, but his actions help him out of some kind of bad situation. For example, in the beginning Huck runs away from Widow Douglas and her all of her attempts to “sivilize” Huck go out the window. From the reader’s point of view, Huck escapes a horrid life based on slavery and racism. We admire his courage to follow his own desires, which may seem selfish, however in analyzing Twain’s novel as a whole, Huck’s escape is truly for the greater good. He symbolically breaks down barriers of Southern values and proves he possesses the selfless confidence, strength of mind, leadership, and desire to spread kindness in the world that heroes should possess. On the other hand, from the perspective of the audience who read Huck Finn when it was first published, Huck may have been the opposite of a hero.

This suggests an interesting notion about heroes: one man’s hero is another’s villain. Time and place factor in greatly when we talk about heroes, for instance a Vietnam War soldier in Vietnam may have been seen as a hero in our eyes, but a terrifying predator in the eyes of the Vietnamese people. The works mentioned in the question, Huck Finn, The Odyssey, Beowulf, and movies like Lord of the Rings, Raiders of the Lost Ark, and Star Wars all have male protagonists. We can argue that the reason women are not the protagonists of these works is at the time of their creation, women were still seen as inferior to men intellectually, physically, and emotionally. Thus, authors might think it strange to have a woman as the protagonist because she simply is not be as “heroic” as a man; she is weaker. But is that the case? Ellen Foster and Elizabeth Bennett might beg to disagree. Over time as women have gained rights and respect, more and more authors use women as their protagonists and give them heroic attributes.

It does not matter what gender, race, or religion a hero is, what matters are the persona and behavior of the hero. I think we do need silent heroes in our society because a world full of selfish followers would seriously harm the progress of humanity. Bertolt Brecht’s quotation, “Unhappy the land that needs heroes” means a place in which no one naturally steps up as a kind-hearted, courageous member of society is a very ill functioning place indeed. Also, as mentioned before, a true hero will not seek recognition for his or her actions. A land that “needs” heroes is a land that does not see the heroes that walk around on the street everyday; it is a land that is oblivious to the heroes they already have and do not realize that sometimes the best kind of heroes are the ones we cannot detect.