Where Are the Heroes? What Stories Didn’t Prepare Us For
The real world doesn’t give us heroes— it asks us to become them.
Last week I found myself jumping atop a bench on the corner of Lancaster Ave in Ardmore — megaphone in hand and sweat beading in my eyes. No one asked me to bring it. I just did. I had a feeling more voices would only help but I also was worried about being presumptuous. You know, that white person.
When I met the organizers — Deb and Katie — they were both thrilled someone brought one! Relief washed over me, and then the realization hit that I was alone. No instructions, no chant cheat sheets. Just me doing this for only the second time in my life.
I watched the crowd grow, complimented signs, and chewed my lip thinking
Am I really supposed to just start chanting?
What would Leia do?
What would Elle Woods do?
What would Skye do?
What would any of the strong female characters that raised me do in this moment?
There was no pulpit. No speakers. No spotlight or mark for a camera ready speech filled with fire and hope. Just me, my megaphone, and a conveniently placed bench nearby. (Thank you City Planning!)
The stories that shape us
Strong Female Character isn’t just a moniker. Its a talisman. My north star.
I was six years old when I saw A New Hope for the first time — the same age my mother was when she saw it in 1977. As soon as it was over, I begged for a Princess Leia doll. In the words of Jodie Foster in Contact “I was hooked.”
Forget Disney Princesses. I wanted to be Princess Leia.
Sassy, beautiful, and brave. She reminded me of the women in my life — armed with sharp tongues and even sharper wits. Only I wanted a lightsaber over a blaster. It just seemed more fun.
Tamora Pierce’s books really solidified the kind of woman I wanted to be though. Alanna the Lioness’ ferocity. Aly’s sharp-eyed cunning. Daine’s wild empathy. Keladry’s unshakable sense of duty. Well-rounded characters who fought through adversity to be themselves.
They were more than characters on a page or screen. They were blueprints for the kind of woman I wanted to be. Pretending to be one of them felt akin to dressing up in my mom’s heels. Big, wobbly, with plenty of room to grow.
I hadn’t grown into the armor of a freedom fighter… yet.
Where’s the Fellowship? The US calls for Aid
After the election, I kept ruminating over and over.
What did we do wrong? What did I do wrong?
Did she lose? Did he steal it?
Fuck him, fuck them, and fuck it all.
I wanted to gear up like my Baldur’s Gate hero or suit up like Cyberpunk’s V and burn the whole admin to the ground. Democracy saved, cue triumphant music, and roll credits.
That’s not how the real world works. That’s not how any of this works. The real world has consequences. Vigilantes aren’t welcome here.
Another thing missing? Nuance.
Books, movies, and TV give you the main character’s thoughts and feelings. You see them fail, feel, and finally grow. That’s what makes you root for them. See Tony Soprano or Walter White. We root for them knowing how terrible they are because we’re with them through the entire journey.
But when it comes to a stranger on the internet, we seem to collectively forget they’re a person on the other side of the screen. We don’t have their backstory or internal monologue. Just a snap judgment and the addictive hit of self-righteous anger.
You see it lately in what’s often called “purity politics”—the idea that people must show up flawless, fully educated, and never messy. That they must be perfectly moral or else be discarded. It prevents us from finding common ground and getting real change done.
It turns movements into minefields.
People become afraid to speak for fear of being taken the wrong way.
Not because they don’t care, but because they don’t want to get dragged for learning out loud.
Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez knows this all too well. She’s praised as a savior one moment, vilified the next. People project their aspirations onto her: “AOC for President 2028!!” “Bernie/AOC 2028!”
That attention — though flattering — often forgets the most basic thing. Has anyone asked her what she wants?
What if she doesn’t want to be President? Do you throw her away then when she doesn’t perform to your exact demands?
You can light the beacons, but don’t expect a ragtag army to show up.
The Myth of the Chosen One
The truth? There’s no chosen one. No Jedi, no Dragonborn, no perfectly righteous leader to save us all. Andor might come the closest to what it actually looks like: a man pushed too far, ordinary people risking everything, and a rebellion built on desperation.
I remember seeing people ask—loudly, incessantly, and indignantly — where Kamala was after Trump was sworn in.
As if they’d forgotten she was the Vice President of the former administration
As if they’d forgotten she was the candidate that lost.
As if she was supposed to break democracy to save it.
As if dignity, legality, and strategic silence aren’t part of that job.
She had no leg to stand on—legally or ethically—by dragging her feet or starting some petty, performative feud.
Seeing it all I couldn’t help but wonder:
Do they even get how the world works?
Or were they just waiting for the hero to save the day?
Are we too far gone into our movies, our TV shows, our mythologies to understand that this isn’t how real change happens?
We’ve been taught that if we hold out long enough—if we just believe hard enough—someone will come riding over the hill to fix it all.
That good will triumph because it’s good!
At Dawn, look to the East.
Real World Evil
In the real world, evil doesn’t announce itself with a theme song. It doesn’t monologue or twirl its mustache.
It looks like tech dorks jumping onstage in designer sneakers, throwing Nazi salutes then hiding behind an autism diagnosis like a shield when accountability comes knocking.
It looks like a Congress that knows a bill will hurt people and votes for it anyway.
It looks like a twice-impeached president with 39 felony charges, a sexual assault conviction, and a name logged again and again in a billionaire’s black book of trafficked girls.
It looks like a media machine that continues to make him a household name instead of a cautionary tale.
So where are the heroes?
Where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods?
Look in the mirror babe.
It looks like you.
Showing Up Again
I stood on that bench in hot, sweaty July and shouted for an hour at the Good Trouble visibility rally. Chugging electrolytes and trying to talk to as many people as possible. I welcomed first time protestors, lifted up amazing signs, and let the crowd suggest chants. Most importantly, I wanted to make sure to speak to why we were here that day: keeping John Lewis’ legacy going by causing Good Trouble.
We got a counter-protestor to go away simply by chanting USA! USA! USA!
Not sure why that works, but it always does.
Maybe because they can’t really argue with it.
Maybe because deep down, we’re the ones fighting for what this country is supposed to be.
Most likely because we can’t be intimidated into silence.
Speaking, however, comes with a cost.
I came home throat raw, clothes drenched, salt dried on my face. Lipstick staining the megaphone where I’d put my mouth onto it. I felt a little goofy and embarrassed. I mean, I jumped on a bench yelling about Good Trouble to a town of mostly white people as a white person.
Who the hell am I to take this mantle on? Why should anyone listen to me? Does what I do even matter?
There was no media this time. I didn’t have anyone come with me to take pictures. I found a few on social media, but there’s not a lot of evidence of the day.
No viral moment. No cheers or accolades. Just my voice amplified in the hot July air, echoing across Lancaster Ave.
And through the echo
I still heard the stupid.
A red truck rolled by with two teenage or twenty-year-old white boys nudging each other, barely bold enough to half-yell “Make America Great Again” before speeding off like they’d accomplished something.
Some of my own neighbors grumbled that the rallies disrupted their day, privilege on full display.
“We put up with four years of Biden,” one of them snapped to my partner in the elevator— as if that’s the fucking same.
As if wearing a mask and surviving a functioning government is equivalent to surviving a presidency soaked in open corruption — and a trade war so stupid it tanked farms, factories, and America’s world standing in one go.
The sheer caucasity to compare the two is laughable and deeply frustrating. But that’s exactly why I keep showing up.
That’s what Good Trouble looks like. Showing up without a camera crew or a hashtag. Choosing to stand up for what you believe in when nobody’s watching.
The Truth Beneath the Myths
The stories that shaped me helped bring me to this moment, but they’re just stories. Tales of caution, triumph, and woe.
Myths of humanity and sacrifice.
Rebellion is built on hope. Courage is contagious.
There’s no chosen one. There never was. There just needs to be more of us who choose.