This essay is not a polemic, nor a reactionary lament. It is an invitation to consider an alternate frame of perception— one that may diverge sharply from our shared cultural narratives. It is best understood as an exercise in moral autonomy. Like any worthwhile philosophical investigation, it requires patience and intellectual openness.

A recent conversation with a social worker— herself trained in psychology— served as the point of departure. Her living room displayed a small bronze bust of John Wayne. When I inquired about it, she lit up, fondly recounting childhood memories of watching Wayne’s films with her father. She assumed I shared her admiration. I did not. Coincidentally, I had recently read about a less flattering episode in Wayne’s legacy: an incident involving his reception in a hospital ward filled with wounded World War II veterans. I was also reminded of an older anecdote from The Book of Lists— an entry that alleged Wayne had financed right-wing paramilitary activity in Latin America.

These stories do not invalidate Wayne’s cultural impact, but they complicate the image. And that, I believe, is a necessary form of humanization. Our culture has a tendency to sanitize the legacies of so-called heroes, erasing their contradictions in favor of mythology. We become emotionally invested in figures whose virtues are exaggerated and whose flaws are suppressed. In doing so, we lose the capacity for honest reflection—not only about our heroes but about ourselves.

We are obsessed with perfection. Idolatry becomes a mechanism for displacing our own moral conflicts. The public rarely scrutinizes the full biographies of celebrated figures. Mistakes are minimized, if not outright erased, by supporters eager to maintain the illusion of unimpeachable virtue. This tendency fosters a collective unwillingness to confront the moral ambiguity inherent in all human lives.

When I shared my reservations about John Wayne with the social worker, she initially responded with indifference. But as I expanded on the incident involving the wounded veterans—who had reportedly booed Wayne during a hospital visit—her defense of him grew more pointed. She insisted that he was, despite his political beliefs, a champion of open dialogue. The conversation turned, predictably, toward the perceived political motivations behind my critique.

What followed was an exchange that underscored a troubling phenomenon: the reflexive protection of idealized figures against any intrusion of moral complexity. Wayne, dressed in full cowboy regalia, had entered a hospital ward of battle-scarred soldiers and been met with hostility. Their disillusionment was not abstract; it was grounded in the harrowing reality they had just endured. Many of them had gone to war with a cinematic understanding of valor, only to discover that combat bore no resemblance to the clean narratives of good and evil that had been sold to them by cinema and literature.

War, especially the kind fought in the first half of the 20^th century, is intimate and brutal. It is not merely a geopolitical contest, but a psychological transformation. Soldiers are not driven solely by patriotism or moral clarity. They are shaped by fear, necessity, and an adrenaline-fueled commitment to survival. The ability to kill effectively becomes a skill, and like any skill, it can become a source of pride— even pleasure. This detachment is not evidence of pathology, but a survival mechanism.

The post-war realization that one’s actions may have been devoid of moral grounding can be shattering. Many veterans return home only to face a society ill-equipped to process the full truth of their experience. The social worker I spoke with dismissed the soldiers’ reaction to Wayne as naïve, subtly suggesting that anyone who expects war to be like the movies deserves the trauma that follows. Her comment betrayed a profound misunderstanding of both historical context and psychological development. These young men were raised on idealized depictions of warfare. They were not prepared for the moral ambiguity of combat.

The U.S. military and Its media partners have long understood the need to control the narrative surrounding war. Brutalities are concealed not for strategic reasons, but to preserve a sanitized version of heroism that remains palatable to the public. American soldiers in the Pacific theater, for example, were exposed to extraordinary cruelty—beheadings, mutilations, and betrayals during false surrenders. In response, they sometimes committed atrocities of their own. Yet these realities are seldom discussed. To dwell on them is, according to some, psychologically harmful. But to ignore them is to engage in a collective delusion.

This willful blindness contributes to a society that fragments under the weight of its contradictions. We fight over trivial ideological differences while avoiding the deeper, uncomfortable truths that bind us. Our unwillingness to confront reality in its full complexity leads to distorted expectations and stunted moral growth.

At the heart of this dysfunction lies a social reflex: the desire to conform, to please, and to be accepted by the group. It is a force so ingrained that it often escapes notice. This instinctual drive perpetuates narratives that prioritize cohesion over truth, and sentiment over analysis. It also explains why so many veterans suffer when they return from war without adequate social support. The military invests heavily in transition networks, public relations campaigns, and mental health resources—not just out of care, but because they understand the psychological cost of confronting the true nature of war without insulation.

But what happens when that insulation is absent? What happens when the war is internal—when one is fighting not an external enemy, but one’s own mind? Without networks of solidarity, state-funded care, or a socially sanctioned narrative, the burden becomes existential.

This is not merely a veteran’s crisis. It is a societal one. Until we are willing to relinquish our idols and confront the uncomfortable truths they obscure, we will continue to misunderstand ourselves and each other. The mythology of the hero, while emotionally satisfying, is morally and intellectually corrosive. What we need instead is a culture capable of acknowledging complexity— one that does not confuse honesty with cynicism, or criticism with disloyalty.

Only then can we begin to engage with reality on its own terms. And perhaps, only then, can we start to heal.