America has strange taste in folk heroes. For example, let’s say some random guy shoots a businessman in the back. We might call this first-degree homicide.
Or we might rejoice in this killing because the victim was an oligarch. Hell, we might sell merch that celebrates the assassination.
Some leftists might call this the first shot in a revolution. Others might find the killer’s smile charming.
And yet others (ok, just about every American) might point out that the victim was emblematic of a diabolical, soul-crushing, life-endangering, shockingly corrupt, highly destructive, and straight-up evil scheme called the health care system.
So I guess that makes it ok to kill him, right?
Of course, it’s a good thing you told me the shooter was a hero. Otherwise, I might think that this nutjob was yet another white guy raised in extreme privilege who encountered some pain in his life and therefore felt entitled to unleash suffering on those he felt were responsible.
I might think how odd it is that a black man who is being a nuisance can get choked to death on the subway, and we say he had it coming. But a good-looking white guy can literally murder someone in the street, and we’re all like, “Hell, yeah!”
I might think it’s bizarre that we are so inured to gun violence that we shrug at bullets slicing through the air of America’s largest city in broad daylight, with the assumption that “another day, another shooting” has become our national mantra.
Finally, I might think the Trumpian era has so warped everyone’s minds that even liberals are deliriously happy about political violence, and thousands of people revel in murder over social media, and hypocrisy mixed with sociopathic disdain has become a mindset to be admired rather than rejected.
I might think all that, but what do I know?
I’m not even a folk hero.
