Notes from a Medusa
For the last six Halloweens, my alter ego has been Medusa—not just because I made a fabulous headpiece, but because Medusa, like many so-called "monsters," has a fascinatingly complex backstory. These days, modern storytellers have even given her a hint of heroism—a refreshing twist that feels like some overdue justice.
The Medusa myth I grew up with always bugged me: Medusa was a priestess of Athena, violated by Poseidon in Athena’s temple. Instead of punishing Poseidon, Athena cursed Medusa, transforming her into a hideous creature whose gaze turns people to stone. Later, Perseus arrives, kills her, and takes her head for its power. It’s a tangled story that begs the question: why punish Medusa, the victim? How does she go from priestess to “monster”?
Too often, we’re tempted by simplicity, even in interpretation. To focus on just one side—the admirable or the reprehensible—is to miss the complexity that connects people across time. Complexity makes stories—and people—relatable, which may be why today’s “anti-heroes” have become so popular. Take Kathryn Hahn’s Agatha in Agatha All Along—she’s selfish, manipulative, and far from nice, yet we still find ourselves rooting for her. Maybe it’s because her enemies seem worse, maybe it’s her flashes of vulnerability, or maybe it’s that we see pieces of ourselves in her blend of selfish and selfless.
Medusa, too, may have felt justified in petrifying people after her betrayal. Was it cruel? Justified? Could it be both? Imagining Medusa’s motivations requires us to see beyond the easy labels, inviting us to flex our empathy muscles. When we look closely, any “hero” or “villain”—real or fictional—offers us that same opportunity.
In a previous post I talked about Thomas Jefferson who has become my go-to example of why oversimplifying history is so limiting. He championed powerful ideals of freedom, yet enslaved his own children, decrying slavery while perpetuating it. Calling him simply “great” or “awful” flattens a far more complex story. By peeling back these labels, we invite audiences to confront but also empathize and connect with the full, messy humanity beneath. This can be uncomfortable—who wants to empathize even a little with an enslaver? But he wasn’t only an enslaver and it’s precisely this discomfort that can spark consideration of the how any of us might justify our worst deeds or decisions with a justification that somehow allows us to look past the harm we cause. Without examining these uncomfortable truths, we risk repeating history’s mistakes in pursuit of an ideal that only exists in textbooks. True relatability requires both empathy and complexity, and that’s why embracing the full story is so essential.
It can be tempting as well to believe that ‘we would never…’ do whatever villains do. We all believe our perspectives and ideals make us ‘good people.’ But presenting figures in all their complexity—through their actions, not just labels—opens the door for audiences to relate to the person despite the flaws and misdeeds, even when villainy taints their otherwise ‘good’ achievements. When we relate honestly, we connect deeply. This is where the real magic of interpretation happens: when people see themselves reflected in the stories we tell.
Next time you’re confronted with someone unlikable, baffling, or downright villainous, ask yourself: can I find one piece to connect to? In that connection, we uncover a path to empathy and understanding.