Checking In on Heroic Men
Criticism
The heroic man, according to Trump and Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth, is one who is ready for war. He must not only be experienced in “warfighting,” but also look the part: no “fat generals” or “woke” culture (which, I can only imagine, is a euphemism for racial and gender diversity). Let’s stop talking around it, then: the masculine hero is a muscular white man who wants to kill people.
Traditionally, heroic masculinity has existed in tension between the strong man who can win any fight and the wise man who outsmarts others so that he doesn’t ever have to fight. I’d grown up hearing “work smarter not harder” and “brains over brawn,” so I’m quite shocked by how quickly it’s become masculine doctrine to be dumb and hot.
The most absurdly generous reading of this idiocy is that Trump has a very literal understanding of executive power. When the US was founded, the executive branch was envisioned as a single person who wields the most significant decision-making power in the government. Strict rules bind the president, but he should act, in the words of Hamilton in the Federalist Papers, with “energy,” so that he can decisively guide us through difficulty.
This protected “energy,” however, leaves us vulnerable when a president reveals himself to be embarrassingly stupid and self-interested.
How do we choose a leader who will act with a decisive energy without spiraling into autocracy? Can anyone truly achieve that balance? Who can we look to as an example?
Maybe we can start with Odysseus.
This won’t be an essay about The Odyssey, I promise. But I’m working my way through The Odyssey for the first time and find Odysseus to be an illuminating example of a hero. So humor me, because without a little more Odysseus talk, my argument will be rudderless and lost at sea.
When Circe tells Odysseus that his ship is headed for a series of horrific trials—the Sirens, Scylla, and Charybdis—she tells him how to survive. When he reaches the Sirens, he must plug his men’s ears so that no one is enthralled by their singing. For his men, earplugs; but for him? A choice. He can listen to their song as long as he has the men tie him to the mast of the ship so that he isn’t drawn to them. He tells his men that Circe “says that I alone should hear their singing” (Book 12, line 163). She, of course, said nothing of the sort. She said that he can choose to enjoy the songs, if he wishes, as long as he remains bound firmly. Odysseus chooses to hear the Sirens, and lie to his men, out of self-interest. He is special—the leader—and wants to take advantage of his privilege.
While sometimes Odysseus capitalizes on his wisdom, other times, he bears it as a heavy responsibility. For example, he lies to his men when approaching Scylla and Charybdis because, “if they knew, the men would drop the oars and go and huddle down in the hold in fear. Then…in [his] hands…two long spears, [he] climbed up on the forecastle” (224-230). Knowing that inevitably some men would be lost, Odysseus lies to keep the men’s spirits up, and takes on the burden of being the only one to know the dark truth. He does more than that: he arms himself in a desperate attempt to shield them: not only from knowledge of their doom, but from the monster itself. Here, Odysseus is the kind of hero who holds onto his wisdom as a responsibility. He holds knowledge like heavy weapons that he alone can bear.
Heroic masculinity is in a kind of crisis right now and Odysseus’s complexity1 offers some clarity. For Odysseus, being a hero is not a simple “muscle > fat” or “war > defense,” as Trump and Hegseth would have it. Rather, it’s a question about whether strength is about being the best and most important (i.e. the only one who gets to hear the Sirens), or about bearing responsibility (i.e. the only one who knows the truth about Scylla’s coming assault).
I’ve been noticing fictional examples that meaningfully take after Odysseus. These men are heroic not because of their glory, but because of their grave acceptance of unglamorous responsibility. I’m thinking of these male characters as a kind of fantasy of how masculinity could’ve been. How it’s not…yet.
Think of these three analyses as me manifesting better men, in light of the embarrassment of the most famous man in the world.
1. Dr. Robby from The Pitt
Dr. Robby (played by Noah Wyle) is the senior attending physician in the fictional Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. The show opens with him and the other senior attending physician on a rooftop, ambiguously contemplating suicide together. High above the medical center they led, they were slumping under the unbearable moral weight of their work. Ultimately they climb down from the rooftop and begin a hellish 12-hour shift.
The moral weight is what I’m interested in here. Robby and Abbot both nearly buckle. There’s no glory in their minds—there’s a dedication to service first…and maybe an adrenaline addiction second.
Robby makes mistakes. Often. One that stands out is his ambivalence around calling the police on a young man who is threatening women. Robby doesn’t want to ruin the kid’s life. Dr. McKay (my favorite character) snaps him back into reality when she reminds him what’s at stake: the lives of the women he’s threatening.
But I see Dr. Robby as someone who embodies Odysseus’s subtle, masculine heroism, which runs parallel to his frequent mistakes.
When Dr. Collins, a senior resident, learns that a teenaged girl is just barely past the gestational limit to receive abortion care, Dr. Robby steps in and takes the case from her. Since he has tenure, he’s shielding her professionally and also helping the girl get the care she needs. This is exactly the kind of decision that Odysseus might make: he can bear difficult knowledge in order to execute the outcome that best serves everyone. It’s inglorious; no one will know he did it. But he’s using his role not to receive accolades, but as a means to an end.2
2. Superman
Unlike Dr. Robby, Superman is a famously uncomplicated character. He’s lawful good: he only wants to help. He supports systems of power and believes in a better future. Because of his focus on the future, he’s willing to turn down opportunities to receive credit for his heroism.
The classic superhero formula is that something bad happens, the victims hope and pray for a hero, and the hero shows up. But Superman plays with that formula in interesting ways that often doesn’t give Superman the glory that he deserves.
The film’s climax is split between two conflicts: Lex Luther’s destruction of Metropolis and the impending invasion of the peaceful country of Jarhanpur by the villainous Boravia. Charming Jarhanpurian children raise a flag with Superman’s symbol and cry out for him, which is captured on television. However, Superman can’t be in two places at once; therefore, he chooses to save Metropolis. Never to be mistaken for a utilitarian, Superman sends his friends—the Justice Gang—to save the citizens of Jarhanpur. Meanwhile, he stops a building from falling on what seems to be one woman in a car. He makes eye contact with her gratefully glinting eyes, and she drives away. He gently sits the building down, disappearing under the rubble, thanklessly. (Don’t worry, he’s fine.)
Superman is willing to quietly save one woman and disappear into rubble rather than liberate hundreds of scared, defenseless refugees live on TV. He is the strongest man on earth and yet it’s not his muscles that makes him a hero—it’s his effectuality paired with his indifference to the glory.
3. Captain Christopher Pike
Most Starfleet Captains fit the bill of Odysseus’s subtle heroism: they prioritize Starfleet’s overall mission (exploration and communication with new lifeforms), but the close second on their list of priorities is to protect their crew. The safety of the crew is not just physical; it’s also about their dignity.
Captain Pike (of the current Star Trek series, Strange New Worlds) is duty-bound in a much more profound way. From the first episode, he is haunted by visions of his future, should he stay in Starfleet. He has not only seen his own death, but has also felt it—a gross, face-melty kind of death that would deter even the bravest of heroes. And yet, he’s being asked to captain a ship. He’s needed. And he accepts the role.
This epic heroic framing feels familiar. He’s got a kind of tortured hero thing going on. But it’s a lot more complicated than it seems, because he himself reflects on how this knowledge will impact him as a leader. It’s as though he’s challenging his audience: do you think you know what kind of leader I’ll be?
Spock and Pike have a version of this conversation in the first episode of the series:
Spock tells him, “Sir, I would suggest that knowledge of death is vital for effective leadership.”
Pike responds, “Knowledge is one thing, Spock, but I experienced it. How will it live in me? Will it make me hesitant? Cautious? Not cautious enough? I’m already second-guessing myself and that’s the last thing that a captain can afford.”
The series that unfurls out of this dark opening is often hilarious and low-stakes. Pike, rather than diving into the fray, usually stays in the captain’s chair and delegates. His leadership style is more circumspect and democratic than most captains. I find this to be an interesting choice metatextually, considering that he’s also the first new male captain since 2004’s series Enterprise. In the obligatory freaky friday episodes3, Pike’s actor, Anson Mount, assumes sniveling sidekicks and cowards. More than lacking a desire for glory, he seems to want to avoid it altogether.
His heroism isn’t in what he does in each episode; it lies in his choice to be on the ship in the first place. He’s bearing something heavy enough to allow others to take the action superstar reins. That is some big hero energy.
I think these guys—Robby, Pike, and Supe—are all pretty admirable fellows.
But there’s also something disturbing here. If I’m right that their subtle heroism is a kind of counterbalance to what we’re not seeing in the executive branch, then it’s disappointing that these heroes still have to be specifically white men.
These characters’ whiteness and masculinity are crucial to how they reframe heroism. They’re the outcome of a Herculean effort to rebrand men, rather than a more truly heroic effort to reskin heroism entirely. For all of its flaws, Marvel films at their height at least assembled a diverse pantheon of heroes. Now, it seems like we’ve reentered a world in which having a black and/or female starship captain is becoming unfathomable.4 There’s a kind of socio-political backsliding that’s happening, and we’re shoring up our final line of defense—a few decent white guys.
But, since white guy protagonists seem to be popping up more and more, I think it’s worth developing a method for identifying a good one, lest we reduce “hero” to whoever’s the most American, muscular and murderous.
Infamously (or famously, in my opinion), Emily Wilson, the first female translator of The Odyssey, translates his epithet as “complicated.”
I want to acknowledge the politicization of this specific instance. I’m not saying Dr. Robby chooses to help a girl get an abortion and that’s what heroism looks like. I personally believe in a woman’s right to choose, but that’s not really what I’m talking about here. I’m talking about the process by which he made this choice. The role he takes on is heroic because it is an unglamorous burden.
Star Trek fans know.
Don’t even get me started on fan backlash against black women Starfleet captains and critiques of “Woke Trek.”
Excellent essay. I both relate and appreciate the fresh perspective. Thank you for your work!
I'm so excited you're reading (or having recently read) the Odyssey for the first time! I grew up studying classics, and this was one of my favorite epics. Lots to sift through; I am particularly fond of the Circe segment you reference, as well as the wedding climax.