Meet Your Heroes

Meet Your Heroes

A few weeks ago, I met one of my honest to goodness heroes. Not just a celebrity or skilled performer (though he could certainly be considered either of those), but someone I both admire and imitate. This man has been speaking (over podcasts and books) into my life for a decade. His words have helped shape and challenge my worldview, have helped shape and dismantle my religious ideologies. He is a fantastically engaging communicator, and I have very little shame in leaning in close for any and all tips that I can glean from him.

Anyway, I had a big ol’ crush on this man, and I was about to see him live in Seattle. It was a much needed vacation away with my wife, with two other couples, all without our kids. It was all very exciting.

The venue where we were seeing my hero was small, 800 seats at full capacity, and I expected there was a decent / outside chance I might actually get to meet my hero, and I needed to be prepared. What do you say in the brief moments shaking a stranger’s hand who has shaped your thinking and aspirations for over a decade? There was too much.

So I did what any sane (slightly obsessed) person would do. I began to write a letter. A letter of thanks, less than a page long, concise but heartfelt. Some written words I could leave with him, as he had left so many with me. A really good letter.

I had my wife read it on the drive down. After she got over the disappointment that I had not gotten up early to write her a note of adoration, she looked over at me and smiled sweetly. “Ah, hon, that’s really sweet. It’s hardly stalkerish at all!”.

(My wife always gives the best compliments).

The letter was folded and placed in my back pocket where it would be worked over through the day, my right hand sometimes absent mindedly feeling for it, other times removing it from my pocket to be sure it was still there.

My anticipation was palpable. We met up with our friends, and I showed them the letter, too. I wasn’t sure how this letter was going to get to my hero, only that it was going to be amazing.

When we arrived at the venue, we somehow found ourselves in the 5th row from the stage (we threw some elbows). We were practically spitting distance…or airplane throwing distance.

A plan was taking shape. I would throw the articulate paper airplane letter onto the stage at an appropriate time during the performance. He would certainly find that odd, but would doubtlessly pick it up, and likely place it in his jacket pocket for later. Then we could hang out and go for tacos and scotch or whatever. I hadn’t over thought it.

My hero took the stage to rapturous applause, and held the vast majority of the audience’s’ attention for nearly 2 hours. I hardly heard what was said. I folded and re-folded my note into the best tiny little airplane I could manage. I even hooked the nose to give it better weight in the front. What I needed was a straight shot, I didn’t need excessive loft or distance. I hadn’t over thought it.

I could feel our host begin to wrap up the evenings’ opus. He delivered his final thoughts and hopes and blessings for us fellow sojourners on this journey of life. The audience took to their feet to applaud, I joined them, and then stood on my chair. It was time. Standing half a person higher than all others in my row, I called out loudly and waved my airplane in my hand. My hero looked at me half blinded by the stagelights with a confused smile. The small crowd around me looked at me in amusement. I pulled back my arm and then I let my tiny aircraft fly… where it immediately curved upwards and then nosedived into the backs of the people in the second row.

My hero bowed and left the stage, and I was deflated.

Had my insane plan worked, I would be a god among men. There would be tales of my boldness and ingenuity. My hero would mention the letter in a podcast and we would become fast friends. I hadn’t overthought it.

But it did not work. I had not overthought it, and it dawned on me that perhaps this plan could have benefited from some actual planning. I suddenly felt incredibly foolish. I stepped off my chair, and waited for the crowd to disperse to pick up my rubbish paper airplane. My embarrassment morphed into anxiety. The whole evening hinged on this letter! How was I going to get this defunct paper airplane to my hero?

My friend noticed my distress and picked up the cause. We peaked behind curtains. We pleaded with security guards, who wanted no part in being note passers (we were likely the most trouble they ran into on this motivational speaking tour). Eventually a sound technician suggested that if I leave my letter on the soundboard, there was a good chance that my hero might see the letter when he returned to collect his iPod, which was currently connected to the system. It was as good a chance as any, and I was ready to be rid of the burden of carrying this now weighty letter.

We stepped out into the cool night air, huddled around and trying to decide where to go next. While I felt ran over, my friend was resolute. He was going to meet my hero (his hero, too). He explained that he had scoped out the exits, and the only exit remaining led out to a side street beside the venue. He had to exit out the side door. To the chagrin of our spouses, we were going to wait.

My friend was right. Less than 20 minutes after the crowds dispersed, a tall figure stepped out of the exit. He was cornered, and we pounced. My friend was articulate, thanking our hero for all that he had poured into his life. Both our lives. I mumbled something likely incoherent about being the guy who stood up on a chair and tried to fly a paper airplane letter to the stage. He was kind and smiled anyway. He shook my wife’s hand and introduced himself. And then he graciously posed for a picture with my friend and I, and we were away. I wanted to stay, and I wanted to disappear completely. To retreat as quickly as possible.

As our small group headed back to our rented house, everyone seemed electrified. We sat around the living room with good wine and scotch in glasses, chocolate and nachos on the table. We laughed and talking about the bigger themes of the night, what it might mean in our individual lives as we returned home. It was the kind of conversation and community that I live for.

But something was off, deep inside. The joy of the evening felt hollow, empty. As ridiculous as it is to admit, I was in mourning for what almost was. Mourning  my expectations for the evening. If only the plane had reached the stage! If only any of the sound or security crew were less professional and led me backstage to impinge on my heroes privacy and security! If only I held onto the letter instead of setting it down on the soundboard! If only, if only…

They say you shouldn’t meet your heroes, lest you find that they are less then your expectation of them. Lest you realize that their feet are made of clay. Lest you see their failings and frailty and humanity.

But what if the problem is not with our heroes? In an evening when all that could be reasonably expected was admission to a show, I actually succeeded in meeting my hero, shaking his hand, getting a picture. He was kind and despite having just finished two hours of speaking, still seemed appreciative that we had sought him out. And I still felt empty and disappointed. 

What if it’s our expectations that betray us, not the person on the other end receiving our adulation? What if it’s our expectations that make or break the adage, “Don’t Meet Your Heroes”?

In anticipation of writing this post, I found a Reddit thread exploring people’s best “don’t meet your hero” moments. Within the thread are multiple accounts of famous actors attempting to shop in grocery stores incognito (the nerve!), lead singers of bands that were assholes (imagine it), and multiple accounts of famous people being short when come upon in airport layovers (suspend your disbelief!).

It’s a great time wasting read, but what really comes through the thread is the humanity of both the heroes and those seeking them. People are tired, people are drunk, and occasionally, people are genuinely warm and compassionate. What really plays into the story is the level of expectation behind the act described. One person related spending hundreds of dollars and traveling on an international flight to meet members of a favourite band. Do you suppose that in the months and weeks and days leading up to that event, with all the money spent and with international airfare tickets in hand, that dreams and hopes could have festered into sky high, specific expectations? I’d say from personal experience that its entirely possible.

Is it wrong that I wrote a letter to one of my heroes and attempted to sail it to him on stage? Of course not. Had that worked it would have been incredible. But my expectations set that specific unfolding of events as the only desirable outcome for the evening. My expectations showed a failure of imagination.

And this is the danger of our expectations. Not that they are good or evil, but that they specify the parameters for our joy or success. This result will mean that an endeavor is a success, that outcome will mean it was a failure. And those parameters can rob us of the everyday, unexpected joy that falls outside our expectations.

The night of  event, as we sat in the audience, I noticed the rapt attention of everyone around me, and my own anxious energy inside as a contrast. The jokes hit my ears late. The nuances of the performance coming in and out, drowned out by my nervously tapping leg. At the very moment that I should have been most present, I was awaiting the end of the evening so I could try (and fail) to sail my tiny airplane letter onto the stage.

I was there, and not there. I had momentarily forgotten how to be here.

The day after I met my hero, after my expectations had been dashed, and I was no longer consumed with what could have been, I was left with what simply was. A wonderful vacation away with my wife. An unexpectedly sunny day in Seattle. A leisurely bike ride with good friends. A spontaneous ferry ride to a nearby island. A stumbled upon restaurant with exceptionally great Mexican food and margaritas. An evening of playing games together and laughing till it was difficult to breathe. It was a day that simply was – devoid of all expectations.

It was wonderful, and easily the best day of the trip.

So meet your heroes. Let them be who they are.  Let them be gracious outside of venue side doors, or let them be assholes, annoyed at one more clamouring fan. Our heroes deserve to be real people. But let us meet our expectations, as well.

Meet the expectations that sneak in as you’re eagerly awaiting something. Observe them as they try to promote a specific outcome. Notice their lack of creativity.  Be mindful as they as they try and up the ante during a perfectly enjoyable evening with friends. Take note as they privilege any number of possible futures over the certain now.

Meet them and be kind, as they are a part of you, after all. Shake their hand, thank them for showing up and introducing themselves. And then remind them (and yourself) that you need to get back to the present moment, the exact moment that you inhabit always.