New England Patriot Aaron Hernandez is twenty-three years old. Prior to beginning his journey with the Patriots, he had a bit of a history – a criminal record, ties to gang members and activity – but was obviously good enough at what he did to be taken into a championship football franchise and given all the fame and fortune he could ever need.
This case doesn’t disturb me because the alleged victim’s body was found in the very same industrial park at which I began working immediately after I graduated college, or because at the beginning of this investigation, it was ‘unclear whether or not Aaron Hernandez would continue to play for the Patriots’, it disturbs me because a man with documented and continued history of violent and illegal behavior was given every little boy’s dream job, professional football player.
And what picked away at me the most (and continues to do so), was the well-publicized local buyback of his jerseys. Meaning that kids wearing the jersey of a documented violent criminal, now accused of murder could return the jersey bearing his number and try their luck with a different player’s.
Charles Barkley stated boldly in 1993, I am not a role model, which sparked a widespread and appropriate debate about the responsibility of being in the public eye. We’ve watched Mike Tyson bite off ears and be railed with domestic violence charges, Dennis Rodman picked up on vast and varied counts, and OJ Simpson – well, let’s just not go there.
Who is a role model? If you’re in the public eye, does that make you a role model? If you stolidly declare that you are, indeed, not a role model, does that change your status? If a child looks up and says, I want to be just like him, does the sentiment negate any declarations to the contrary?
The world has tilted on its axis to accommodate the growing trend of fame for violence, case in point this week’s Rolling Stone cover. I haven’t taken a side on this issue other than that kid’s face should not be on a magazine. Not right now, at least. Perhaps not ever. Matt Taibbi, of Rolling Stone‘s blog, begs to differ. You can read his rationale here.
I can rattle off example after example of substantial and disproportionate rewards for bad behavior, the foremost of which is fame. A stunning and relevant example of this is The Bling Ring. Just last week, I watched the teens involved in a series of robberies of young, rich Hollywood stars state their side of the story on ABC’s 20/20. And guess what? It’s also being made into a movie. Not bad for a bunch of delinquent teenagers.
So, I ask you this: What is the punishment for bad behavior? Is it matching your house arrest monitoring bracelet with your shoes? Is it a catchphrase, a hashtag, a movie, perhaps? Do the Teen Moms and the Jersey Shore kids really have it all wrong, or is it us, who read their tweets and buy their slippers?
But let’s get back to the athletes. I understand that people are people, and some people have complicated and difficult histories. I’m sure that there are a few concert violinists out there who really tear it up on the weekends. But if it’s my responsibility to stay out of trouble whilst I do my job, lest I get fired, why does that standard apply only loosely to those we watch, listen to, and admire? Why am I subject to a thorough background check when others are not?
If kids can’t look to athletes or television stars or musicians as their role models, who is left? Are we watching these figures too closely, or are they behaving with all the responsibility of individuals with far more money and power than they can handle, coupled with a demonstrated lack of self-preservation?
And if being handed a life of fortune, fame, and money isn’t humbling enough, what really is?
