Whether I Shall Turn out to Be the Hero of My Own Life
I was recently reflecting on the opening line of Charles Dickens’ masterpiece, David Copperfield. We meet our protagonist as he is considering his legacy, “Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.” His consideration does not focus on whether or not he will be remembered; his interest is in whether or not he will be remembered as the hero. We all can relate to this question on some level. Naturally, if someone were going to write a story about my life, I would be the central character. David Copperfield is obviously about the life of David Copperfield. However, will the reader ultimately be left with the idea that Copperfield is a tragic failure? Will someone else appear to be braver, stronger, smarter, and better than him? If so, then perhaps David is not the hero of his own story, even if he is the central character.
On some level, we want to be the hero of our own stories. Our egos can drive our ambitions. I do not know that our desire to be the hero of our own stories must be driven by ego, however. I think it might be more accurate to say that we want our lives to make a difference. Changing the world for the better is what heroes do, and I do not know very many people who want to leave the world in a worse place than they found it.
Heroic ambitions can be global or local. Some people aspire to end world hunger; some aspire to provide a loving home to foster children. Both are heroic; the only difference is scale, not value. Society might praise those who are heroic on a massive scale with streets named after them, but the world would be a much worse place without millions of smaller acts of heroism every day that most people will never even acknowledge.
If it is part of our human nature to have some heroic ambition to make a difference in the world, Copperfield fears that he might not be the hero of his own story. Despite being the central character, he might not make a difference, and someone else might become the hero. Is it possible to be the central character and not be the hero?
A similar question could be asked of The Lord of the Rings. Tolkien claimed that Sam was the “chief hero,” but he is far from the central character. Most of the time, he appears as nothing more than Frodo’s companion, and he only takes the chief position in the narrative for a few pages while Frodo is captured after his encounter with Shelob. Many would argue that Frodo is the central character of the majority of The Lord of the Rings, but the pages do not seem to show him to be Tolkien’s hero.
The Chronicles of Narnia rely on a hero who shows up at important yet relatively rare moments. Aslan plays a very prominent role in a few of the Chronicles, but he fades into the background in others. However, even in the background, he never fails to intervene heroically. The children seem to be the principal characters rather than the great lion, who is truly the hero.
In each of these examples, it is clear that a central character does not have to be the hero or at least the main hero. Frodo and all of the Narnian visitors are heroic, but Copperfield’s concern of the central character not necessarily being the hero seems valid. What are we to make of this if we have a human desire to be the hero but quite possibly might not be the hero? Do we have to live with that dissatisfaction?
One can appeal to perspective. If something works out well regardless of who emerges as the hero, then everyone is better off. Even if I want to be the hero, if I benefit from a victory led by someone else, I should be joyful. I should frame my perspective away from my desire to be the hero and instead focus on the result. Denying my human ambition is much easier said than done, but that is one way to address the potential dissatisfaction of not being the hero of my own story.
Appealing to perspective is not necessarily satisfactory, though, because the results are not always there. Imagine a soldier fighting to protect his homeland against a superior enemy. The soldier will die on that field; no matter how heroically anyone acts, the result is imminent. The commander stands up and rallies his troops to follow him on one last doomed assault. Our soldier is afraid to rise out of the trench to join this heroic charge. The commander and his fellow soldiers emerge as heroes in his story, while our particular soldier does not.
Focusing on the result in this situation is not going to work out because, despite the bravery, all of those men will die. They were heroic, and they fought to the end, but the result will be defeat. Therefore, while you could argue that the army’s reputation is better off because of its soldiers’ bravery in the face of death, for our specific soldier, who is the central character of his own story, he will not be called the hero at the end. He wavered.
Suppose results are not a good way to satisfy the tension between being the central character and not necessarily being the hero of your own story. In that case, it may be more appropriate to remove the reader from the situation. Does it necessarily matter whether or not the pages of David Copperfield cause the reader to conclude that David is the hero?
Removing the reader’s judgment of heroism from the consideration of what makes a hero brings the attention back to the presence of heroic activities. In Narnia, Aslan is the hero, but each of the children can perform heroic actions. As the central characters, they can at least have the satisfaction, unlike our fearful soldier, that they were part of the solution. It is easier to celebrate the success of a venture when you played a positive part in that triumph. The same applies to Frodo and Sam. While Sam may be the chief hero of the tale, according to Tolkien, Frodo, as the chief character, did many heroic deeds as well. Frodo could celebrate the victory because he performed morally virtuous actions.
Heroic actions define heroes, not the reader’s judgment. Rather than focusing on the results and using that to determine whether or not we feel like the heroes of our own stories, emphasizing the process seems to provide a more satisfactory basis for handling this tension between being the central character and wanting to be the hero. One more thought experiment might drive this point home. Using another battlefield image, imagine a soldier who sees his comrade injured in no man’s land. He runs out to try to bring his brother back to safety. In the process, both of them are shot and die. No one remembers what our soldier did; it will never be in a history book. Is this soldier a hero?
He is a hero even if no one knows that he is. Therefore, it is evident that heroism can exist independent of anyone else’s recognition of it. Heroism can also exist without a positive result. Heroism lies in the performance of heroic actions. David Copperfield wonders whether or not the pages of his book will show him to be the hero of his story. He is asking the wrong question. The better question is whether or not he performed heroic actions. If he did, it does not matter what the pages show or even if the reader denies his heroism. He can be satisfied with his efforts and relax the tension he feels.
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