Our at times harmful understanding of heroes comes largely from ingrained literary and cultural depictions of heroism, which are often myths. Sociologist James K. Beggan notes that we “seem disinclined to focus on the potential downside of [heroism] perhaps in part because the culturally shared prototypical scenario of heroism does not include elements of harm” (15). He explains that we shy away from considering the potentially negative effects of heroism because of our internalized idea of heroes as invincible to injury. Moreover, our belief in heroes’ invincibility causes us to fail to support heroes who do survive the ordeal. “For all who commit heroic acts, the moment of glory ends: the plane lands on the Hudson and water-soaked luggage must be accounted for,” Carroll explains. However, we tend to erase this kind of less-appealing, practical aftermath from our consciousness, exiling our once-glorified heroes to “a life of anonymity” (Carroll). This has proven especially true for war veterans—a fact that is especially salient when health workers are likened to soldiers at war. Karl Marlantes, author of the nonfiction book What It Is Like to Go to War, explains that military service asks “a 19-year-old to play the role of God,” which “leaves behind an enormous wound to the soul” (qtd. in Carroll). This trauma from making God-like decisions about others’ lives requires attention to heal, but Marlantes suggests that soldiers are not given this attention post-heroic act (Carroll). The National Coalition for Homeless Veterans acknowledges that veterans face a lack of support, finding that veterans comprise over one third of homeless individuals in America and that almost half of homeless vets live with mental illnesses (Stuart). Though we laud these people when they endanger their lives for us, when they come home, we forget them, failing to support their mental health or to simply give them a place to sleep. As a nation, we overlook all that follows a heroic battle, leaving veterans “to face the consequences of what being a ‘hero’ really means. And the isolation can be stifling” (Carroll). 

Significantly, war veterans’ isolation and “wound[s] to the soul” from playing God mirror health workers’ current realities (Marlantes qtd. in Carroll). The flood of articles describing healthcare “heroes” fighting bravely on the frontlines and in the trenches in the war against COVID-19, or doing a patriotic duty, suggest, frighteningly, that health workers will soon be treated as war veterans. In other words, when our language likens health workers to soldiers, it actually endangers those who will survive the frontlines of the pandemic: in characterizing them in this way, we risk treating them as we treat other war heroes, ultimately abandoning them when they need us most.  

But how, one might wonder, could we allow ourselves to disengage from people’s needs once their heroic moment has ended? Perhaps this disconnect from what comes after a heroic act cannot be fully understood without recognizing our internalized desire to be saved. As Beggan reflects, heroism “guide[s] how people think about and evaluate their lives and goals. Is the valuing of heroic action a means for people to absolve themselves of social responsibility? By elevating heroes on a pedestal, an individual social perceiver increases the status difference between hero and observer and can justify not acting in a prosocial manner” (25). In other words, he argues, the label of “hero” is a tool we use to evaluate how we, as bystanders, should (or should not) react to social crises. However, this creates a gap between heroes and regular people who then passively wait for a savior, telling themselves, “‘I’m not a hero, so there’s nothing I can do’” (Beggan 25). Hero myths actually expose a cultural desire to be saved: there is “a societal belief that you are either a hero or a regular guy. . . . Clark Kent is a slightly bumbling journalist until trouble arises—then he becomes Superman.” In popular narratives, protagonists are “largely able to keep the regular guy and the hero completely separate” (Carroll). This dichotomy in the media we consume daily further reinforces that we, the regular folk, must wait for the Supermans to swoop in to save us. But in the case of this pandemic, health workers don’t have superhuman powers. They are real people whose power is derived from training, protective equipment, and our support. If we allow ourselves to continue to internalize the I can’t do anything, I’m not a hero rhetoric, we deprive our heroes of their powers and discharge ourselves from playing our part in this crisis. After all, the pandemic is everyone’s problem, not just the problem of an exhausted doctor on a fourteen-hour shift reusing an N95 respirator. 

As Carroll points out, though, these “moments of internal struggle don’t make for good movies. The vision of the veteran . . . or the first responder, alone, struggling to come to grips with that singular moment [of heroism] and its real significance is just not nearly as glamorous.” Here she identifies a sobering revelation: we justify our passivity because of our desire to ignore realities that do not make for bright and shiny stories. As we grow tired of reading about rising body counts, we want to disregard the possibility that our supposed heroes are struggling as much as we are. To admit this truth would be to admit that our heroes are just as human as we are and to require us to take action ourselves—to become our own heroes. 

This desire to be saved and avoid action becomes even more potent when we romanticize people dying for us as “patriotic.” Despite the conflict between this and our belief that heroes are invincible, news coverage of the pandemic has been saturated with justifications of health workers’ deaths as valorous sacrifices for our nation. Roman poet Horace famously wrote, Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori—“it is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country”—popularized in Wilfred Owen’s World War I poem “Dulce et Decorum Est.” Dying as patriotism has been ingrained in us since the earliest civilizations. Its historical and contemporary legacy is seen in a 1918 article in The North American Review, where Vernon Kellogg demonstrates how many extolled the idea of sacrifice as patriotism during World War I. He proclaims, “The French morale, after an inconceivable sacrifice of men, money and material, was never higher than now. England has given most of its best and is now giving the rest, and living a life of repression quite beyond our present understanding. . . Our opportunity is beginning” (832). He applauds England for deploying as many soldiers as possible for the war effort and for soldiers’ lives “of repression” that he viewed as a service to their countries. Above all, Kellogg eagerly anticipates America’s opportunity to make a similar “superlative sacrifice” of lives. While these soldiers’ bravery is admirable, by implying that leading a “life of repression” is itself a form of patriotism, Kellogg fuels our societal desire to be saved and elevates our justification of passively watching others struggle to an even more dangerous level. If we justify heroes’ self-sacrifices as patriotic, isn’t supporting these heroes in substantive ways equally patriotic, if not more?

The idea of sacrifice as patriotism is not limited to World War I, either—a Guardian article called “Helping your country do better: what patriotism means in 2016” reported readers’ ideas of patriotism following Donald Trump’s “law and order” speech to the Republican convention. In it, many readers included some form of sacrifice in their definitions of patriotism. New Mexico ranch manager Michael Bain, for example, declared, “Patriotism means supporting and being responsible for your family, your community and all levels of government with your willingness to work, to volunteer, to pay your share of taxes and pay with your life if need be.” However, during this pandemic, when health workers’ willingness to “pay with your life if need be” is in direct conflict with supporting and “being responsible for your family,” we must dig deeper to find new definitions, as our existing ideas of patriotism justify supposedly beloved heroes’ unnecessary suffering and reveal that we sometimes value sacrifice to the point of slaughter. 

Contrasting Bain’s sacrificial idea of patriotism, however, Guardian reader Caitlin B expressed a different idea of patriotism: “Whatever patriotism means, it’s not blind acceptance of the status quo. Patriotism means constant vigilance and asking whether the direction your country is headed in . . . makes your country a better place.” Critical analysis and awareness of a country’s direction is a form of patriotism that does not confuse love of one’s country with “blind acceptance” of all the country’s actions. In the age of COVID-19, where the new status quo seems to be posting Instagram stories with a #thankhealthheroes sticker as a way to ‘do our part’ while thousands of health workers nationwide go unprotected and unsupported, B urges us to identify that the way the country is proceeding is not helping. When we reflect on her definition of patriotism, it becomes clear that conflating it with sacrifice ultimately results in treating healthcare workers as second-class citizens. This powerful realization necessitates a shift in thinking; dying because your country is not supporting you is not patriotic. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori—that is “The old Lie,” as Wilfred Owen says. 

Ultimately, regardless of any of Trump’s statements, health workers currently lack PPE and support, and they are dying. This debate is not about policy or logistics, but morality. Thus, in order to begin understanding and addressing what our failure to act on the PPE shortage reveals about our nation, we must first recognize how labeling health workers as heroes erases their humanity. We can certainly have a functional definition of heroism, but this erasure of humanity is not it. As a result, in this fight for our lives, we cannot let our language mask health workers’ needs for support now or in the aftermath of their “heroism.” Perhaps most importantly, we must be critical of applauding the idea of dying for your country as inherently patriotic and using this false patriotism to absolve ourselves of responsibility. Instead, we must recognize that we cannot be passive beneficiaries of heroism. Health workers are not the only ones who must take action. We too must be brave enough to redefine patriotism not as dying for your country, but as providing for those who serve us so that patriotism becomes about cultivating the life and health of our whole community—not just certain members of it.