The Distance Between Influence and Identity: When Our Heroes Become Human

Do you remember how old you were when you realized that your parents had names? I recall my adolescent self being floored the day I learned mum's name was actually Bernadette. The humanization of my mother felt like a personal betrayal. Not only was this an indication that she did not belong to me, but it was an even bigger conspiracy that she had her own life that existed beyond mine, she was a person who had her own hopes and dreams, experiences. She wasn't bulletproof – she felt pain, disappointment, and sadness. She learned things and also made mistakes. Beyond our resemblance and shared DNA, she was just like me, she was human.

This revelation mirrors a journey many of us take with our cultural icons. Just as we must reconcile our parents' humanity with their role in our lives, we face a similar challenge with those we elevate to heroic status in our culture. Having personal heroes and people we look up to is part of the human experience. None of us really knows what we're doing when we arrive on this earth, and we look to others for inspiration, guidance, and mentorship. These people provide us with a blueprint for building our own lives as individuals.

In my formative teenage years, one of these blueprints came from Kanye West. "Way back when they thought pink polos would hurt the Roc," Kanye made it cool for boys to wear "feminine" hues. For teenage boys flushed with newfound levels of testosterone, masculinity was defined to us by the braggadocio of rap and hip hop. I enjoyed the music, the slang, and the fashion but never resonated with the characters of this world. Until I listened to Kanye for the first time – an anti-hero who rapped about anxiety, being socially awkward, and self-conscious.

He talked about internal conflicts that were deeply familiar to boys like me. The yearning for acknowledgment from your peers. Self-identifying as the nice guy who finishes last but determined to win the adoration of women. This often led to acting out of character to appease these fictional masters. He was speaking to me. He saw me. I wanted to feel comfortable in my own skin so badly, but I simply did not have the confidence.

When the infamous Taylor Swift incident happened at the MTV VMAs, something shifted – not in Kanye, but in me. This marked the beginning of my role as a defender of his behavior. Things that I personally did not condone or agree with, I found myself wanting to justify. I felt I owed so much to this man; he deserved the benefit of the doubt at least. His music had been so impactful for me – he was just misunderstood, just like me. There had to have been some rationale that we couldn't yet comprehend. Maybe Taylor Swift had it coming. This was a good man, a creative genius.

The Confederate flag donned during the Yeezus campaign was my breaking point. Not because my brain had suddenly developed new critical thinking abilities, but because time had given me perspective. The music wasn't resonating the same way it had in high school. Maybe I'd become more comfortable in my own skin. More importantly, I had found other role models – teachers who showed me how to channel creativity constructively, local community leaders who demonstrated how to stand up for beliefs without alienating others, friends who proved you could be both confident and kind.

These diverse influences created a more nuanced understanding of role models. Like discovering my mother's name, I began to see Kanye not as an infallible guide but as a human being whose art had touched my life at a crucial moment. The truth is, I've never met Kanye West. While I resonate deeply with his art, that's the extent of our relationship. Everything beyond that was fantasy – a parasocial bond strengthened by social media's illusion of intimacy.

I don't believe it's as simple as separating the art from the artist because they are inextricably linked. That music wouldn't be the same if made by someone else; there are pieces of his soul in the music itself. The solution, I've found, is more like my relationship with my dentist, Dr. Charles. A lovely older gentleman I see every few months. My relationship with him exists within the context of my oral health and wellbeing. I'm extremely grateful for his role in my life – having poor dental health can be a painful and expensive experience. Even though we chat every time I see him, I don't feel the need to engross myself in his political views. That's not part of our relationship.

In the age of social media, our relationships with people we look up to have ascended to a new level of complexity. We have unfettered access to their thoughts, opinions, and daily lives through our screens. This creates an illusion of intimacy that can be dangerous when left unchecked. We begin to feel we know these figures personally, that we owe them our unwavering support, that their words carry the weight of scripture.

But perhaps the greatest lesson I've learned is that true growth comes not from blindly following any single prophet, but from gathering wisdom from many sources and forging your own path. The real deity to worship is the potential within yourself – a potential shaped by the various influences you choose to embrace or reject. Like my mother Bernadette, like Kanye, like all of us, our heroes are human. And maybe that's exactly what makes their moments of brilliance so powerful – they show us what's possible, not what's perfect.