The Pixies chant in the background, “With your feet on the air and your head on the ground….” The first building explodes, “…Try this trick, and spin it, yeah….” With a bellow like thunder, a second tumbles. “…Your head will collapse, but there’s nothing in it….” The remaining buildings quiver with the inanimate fear imposed on them by the viewer. “…And you’ll ask yourself, where is my mind?” Guitar riffs wail as the camera pans out, and Edward Norton’s nameless character clasps the hand of his new love, creating for himself the sublime ending to his forged conquest of the mundane. Like the buildings he watches crumble, he razes mediocrity in realization of the importance of identity. His mind, for the first time, drops anchor, creating his self between his ears, in perfect harmony with the apocalypse he harbors.
Norton's pilgrimage is that of meaning and identity.
The purpose of fight club is, as Tyler Durden puts it, because “We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War’s a spiritual war. Our Great Depression is our lives.” Edward Norton’s internal struggle stems from his lack of substance, his perpetuation of mediocrity, and obsessive materialism. He creates Tyler Durden as a representation of his ideals, and begins fight club to constantly combat the demons that he faces in realizing his failure as an individual. His victory over his idealism shows his maturation as a person and his defining of character. Edward Norton does not find himself in Fight Club; he creates himself. When faced with nothing spectacular, nothing but the pedestrian devils of the proletariat, he spawns greatness.
But what is the greatness that I see in it? I wrote about my passion for individuality in my previous project, and Edward Norton represents the consummate example of one who rejects the societal standard. With a feral indifference to those who govern him (i.e., his boss), he seeks out and achieves the creation of his individual. For this reason, Edward Norton is one of the few fictional characters that I will ever view as a hero. He suffers from no crippling memories of his past and has no physical obstacle that he must overcome—his plight is humanness. With no traumatic event or divine inspiration in his life to point him in a direction of purpose or pursuit of a passion, he undergoes the most powerful of metamorphoses and one that I view as the perfect manifestation of the purposes and core values of this literature course. I feel like I have experienced little trauma or revelation in the same way that Edward Norton had, and thus I view so much of life through the lens of soccer, as the sport had so much of an affect on my perspective on life, outside of kicking a ball around.
I have played on four different teams since I was ten years old, and from my differing experiences on all of them, I amassed my insights and perspectives. The greatest of which derived from the different personalities of each coach. From 7th to 9th grade, I played for a team called the Dallas Comets. We were a nationally ranked team, consistently competitive in the largest scale tournaments, in large part due to our coach. His name was Horst Bertl. His resume inspired awe—a former member of the German national team and several teams in the Bundesliga, Germany’s elite professional soccer league. His voice was hoarse, his accent as thick as his beard. His swollen belly protruded from under his shirt, as his passion for soccer was matched only by a fondness of beer. During games and practices, praise played sidekick to the villain of Horst’s spiteful yelling. Negative feedback existed as my sole motivator, and I did not thrive in that setting. I live for the pat on the back, and Horst reserved those for only the truly remarkable. And so, I played in constant fear. I possessed not a modicum of confidence in myself because, as it seemed, neither did Horst. My play style became passive: I shied away from the ball because I was terrified of losing it. Having the ball at my feet, I could see Horst—I could feel him—sitting in his blind, cross-hairs lined up perfectly over my cowering face, ready to murder what little faith I had left in myself. I no longer played to my strengths, and I slowly became the vision that Horst laid out for me: a one-trick role-player who was put on the field not to screw up. After my freshman year of high school, I had to change teams. I no longer played soccer for myself—I was playing to satisfy Horst.
He was indeed a good coach, just not for me.
Entering into my sophomore year, I was playing for two new coaches: my high school coach Cory and my new club’s coach Jason. Neither promised the same expertise that Horst did, but they proffered something far more valuable—confidence in my abilities as a player. Instantly, they transformed me. They offered no new instruction or insight to the game, but I could once again play. The summer between my 9th and 10th grade years purged me like a sauna. A ravenous bloodthirst for the ball at my feet characterized my new playing style. I was still prone to the same mistakes, but Jason and Cory would offer a pick-me-up: “Shake it off! Get your head in the game,” and I could. Because of their belief in me, I could once again play the game the only way I knew—as myself. My individuality was back, and thus my passion was back. I chased down opponents with a reckless disposition, I demanded the ball at my feet, and much as my long, red hair would denote, flowing and crackling chaotically as I played, the fire was back.
Coaches like Cory and Jason are heroes to me. They instilled their leadership vision in their teams and believed in their players. Because of that leadership, they allowed me to fulfill my greatest passion: they let me be myself on the field. It is funny, then, to analyze how I acted off the field. Under Horst, I was the quiet member of the team who hardly ever talked and followed. Under Cory and Jason, I became the team loud-mouth, constantly cracking jokes and conversing with my teammates, but most importantly, I lead. As the formation of my character continues, I see now the importance of Cory and Jason’s impact on me. My role as a leader is growing, and their visions have become mine. Robert J. Lee writes, “Your leadership vision must fit with your personal vision; it emerges from it and helps make your personal vision happen” (X79). My personal vision is to continually uphold my greatest passion—that of individuality and my unique self. Emerging from that now is my leadership vision: to inspire those around me in the same way that Jason and Cory inspired me. I can lead others by not doubting them—by believing in what they can do. My experiences through soccer have been emblazoned on my character in such a way that I believe I can pass this torch of leadership onto the next generation. This connection, between my passions of soccer and identity and their leadership vision, parallels Lee’s thoughts on the subject, “Within the larger story of your life, then, your view of yourself as a leader emerges” (X81). But it is not just the narrative of my career as a soccer player that directs my leadership vision. I would like to look back at Edward Norton’s character in Fight Club once again. He does not just create for himself an identity. He spreads his vision through the creation of fight club, providing an escape for the rest people suffering from the same injustices of mediocrity and boredom. His role as a leader is even further developed than Jason or Cory’s ever could be, as he fosters the chaotic sojourn from pedestrian to individual for thousands of other men. He does not simply believe in the men whom he fights, he shows them how to believe in themselves and to create themselves. That is the ultimate goal of my vision—to provide an avenue for others (although in a less extreme way) like Edward’s fight club. The interlocking gears of society are assembled by this paradigm—that six billion people, each with a voice, can grind in perfect harmony. My passion is indeed vague, but its leadership vision is explicit. When a community can grow together because of the distinct expression of each of its parts, and when a leader can inspire all to sing in their truest voices, greatness can be achieved.
My leadership vision does not extend only to extracurricular activities. Its relevance to the Plan II curriculum, and more specifically the role of this class, is striking. Perhaps the most unique aspect of the Plan II program is its conduciveness to academic freedom. But this freedom can only be beneficial if the professors of the broad range of required subjects can instill a sense of confidence in their students. Plan II is "education without boundaries," but without leaders who can inspire, boundaries can exist like an impermeable skull around the flowering mind. Particularly in this world literature course, compassion is a foundation of our learning, and compassion fosters a leader's ability to believe in his subjects. Without compassion, without leaders who can advance this vision, the freedom of the mind is stifled, and the purpose of this program is forgotten.
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